


catalyst

by a_very_smol_frog, rinpanna



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Banter, Frogs are very important to Atsumu, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, POV Alternating, Projecting of the pain of being a STEM major onto SakuAtsu, Rating will change, Slow Burn, tags will change, twin angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:56:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28882803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_very_smol_frog/pseuds/a_very_smol_frog, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinpanna/pseuds/rinpanna
Summary: Atsumu and Kiyoomi both start off college on the wrong foot—with Atsumu stuck in the past and Kiyoomi resentful towards his future. When Fate (or the Devil, depending on your source) sticks them together for their 7:30am Intro Chem lab, the reaction between them is bound to be explosive. Will they go up in smoke, or is this just the catalyst for something more?
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Komori Motoya & Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu, Miya Atsumu & Suna Rintarou, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 30
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. Okay, so Anna and I thought of this crazy idea late one night in a discord server, and now it's a real thing. This is really going to just be a long story of us clowning these idiots and projecting the pain of being STEM majors onto them. 
> 
> It has been so much fun to work with Anna on this project. We've laughed so much, and really made something for ourself that we can't wait to share with you all. 
> 
> We also want to give big THANK YOU to [Aspen](https://twitter.com/senkusIut), [Nicki](https://twitter.com/ttodomomo), and [Lorrin](https://twitter.com/lokurochan) for reading over this chapter and leaving such wonderful comments! Our friend's support while creating this has been amazing <3 We are so lucky to have you guys.

“Call Me Maybe” blasts from Atsumu’s phone speakers, jolting him awake. Carly’s voice is as splendid as always, but seven a.m. is much too early to listen to _anyone_ sing about poorly hitting on their twunky-ass neighbor.

Groaning into his pillow, Atsumu pats the mattress haphazardly without looking up. His hand eventually meets the cold block of metal that is his phone, and he presses the off key. The combination of the deep snare drums and violin motif decrescendos into silence. Atsumu lays there in a daze for the next few moments, head still spinning with the mild rush from the rude awakening.

Fucking Osamu. He helped Atsumu move all his shit from home to his fourth-floor dorm room last week before orientation started (“Because I am the benevolent twin,” he explained), but apparently left him this new alarm tone as his parting gift (“Because he is the asshole twin,” Atsumu thinks). Atsumu hadn’t known of this alteration before now, though, because his very kind but very loud roommate has woken him up every day since. Shouyou doesn’t even do it on purpose—Atsumu knows he tries to be quiet when getting ready for his (much too) early morning runs, but that boy doesn’t have a single quiet bone in his body. Except for when he meditates, but he’s almost scarily quiet then. He’s a bit like a puppy: energy level either 0 or 110, with no inbetween.

Atsumu accepted this earlier morning with relative grace, not even deigning to turn his alarm on after the second day. He’s not typically a patient person, but even he’s trying to be a bit nicer to others now that his college career has begun. (This was definitely _not_ because his Gram told him he needed to “shape up” his personality a bit before heading off into the real world. Nope, not at all.) Besides, the whole rest of their days were then filled with the absolute _chaos_ that is Freshman Orientation, so it was nice to have a bit of space to breathe before the madness started.

He actually didn’t bring up the alarm thing with Shouyou at all until the night before, making some off-handed quip about how maybe he won’t even have to set one anymore; Shouyou’s got him on a new sleep schedule, after all. He meant it light-heartedly, really, but he spent 18 years being a sarcastic asshole and old habits die hard—it definitely came out more cutting than he intended. But Shouyou—blessed, sweet Shouyou—only looked at him with deep distress in his eyes, then babbled out five million apologies and promises to be quieter from then on out. Atsumu replied with a syrupy, casual, “Don’t mind, Shouyou-kun,” but internally he was freaking the fuck out. How does one properly handle the likes of such a blatantly earnest person? Atsumu pondered this question as he tapped through his phone, ruefully flicking on his 7am alarm.

Welp. He’s roommates with Shouyou for the next year (unless Shouyou gets sick of his caustic ass and moves out—Atsumu would _not_ be surprised), so he’ll probably find ou—

_Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy!_

Atsumu swears at Carly’s abrupt outburst, arm shooting out to hit snooze again on pure adrenaline. He’ll turn it off eventually, really, but he’s too damn tired to open his eyes right now.

After another thirty seconds of writhing around his sheets in sadness—why must it be so _early_ —he finally sits up. Cracking open his eyes, Atsumu unlocks his phone, ending the alarm for the rest of the morning. He’s about to peel himself out of bed when his gaze quickly skims over his phone again and discovers that the alarm’s name is “good morning, sunshine <3.” Resentment flares in his gut at the playful insult, at the reminder of Osamu. Osamu, who left him behind with nothing more than a custom alarm as he drove off to his fancy culinary college about an hour north of Atsumu’s. Huffing out a sigh, Atsumu swings his feet off the mattress and heads towards the sink in the corner of his room.

The relentless pace of Orientation Week has mostly kept him out of his head—other than those moments when he instinctively insisted his new acquaintances to call him “Atsumu” not “Miya.” It rolled off his tongue like water from years of needing to distinguish between himself and Osamu, but the fact that the distinction wasn’t _necessary_ anymore stung like a bitch with each request.

As Atsumu brushes his teeth, the truth begins sinking into his skin: this is his first day of school without Osamu by his side.

Osamu made the conscious decision to leave him. Not only that, but he made it without even consulting Atsumu beforehand—casually dropping one afternoon that he would be attending culinary school, rather than following Atsumu to university. That was the first time Atsumu realized that they wouldn't always be together, and the way that Osamu had seemingly come to terms with it so easily had made Atsumu’s chest ache. So he pushed the thought to the back of his mind all summer to deal with later, while still giving Osamu as much grief as possible without letting it truly slip to the forefront. But knock, knock, bitch—reality’s home, and she’s got just one question:

Has Osamu ever needed him?

Spitting out his toothpaste, Atsumu splashes his face with water in an attempt to cut off his spiraling thoughts. Instead, the cold seeps into his bones, making the chill of his veins even more acute, the solitude even more tangible. He sighs, but the weight in his chest remains.

It’s too fucking early for this.

In an attempt to distract himself, Atsumu opens his closet and shuffles through his clothes. Gotta make an impression on your first day, after all. Something not _too_ dressy but also still highlights your good parts. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), all of Atsumu’s parts are good parts, so he has to work extra hard to put together a nice outfit. Being so good looking has its disadvantages.

Ego boosted by his own inner monologue, Atsumu holds various combinations of shirts and pants up in the mirror for the next minute or so. He eventually decides on a floral print short-sleeve buttonup, some dark wash jeans, and a pair of black Converse. It’s a bit hot for pants and closed-toed shoes, but his 7:30am Chemistry Lab—the whole reason he’s up at this cursed hour—demands it. Safety first! He gives himself a final once over in the mirror, whistling, and pads back over to the sink to grab some hair gel and complete the look.

Clothes fresh and hair styled, he feels a lot more ready to start the day. And not a single thought about Osamu throughout the whole process! He’s doing just fine on his own, thank you very much. At that thought, his phone buzzes from where he left it on the bed. Atsumu walks over, slinging his backpack on in the process. Glancing down at the notification, his mood sours in an instant.

**Unknown number [7:16]**

> Have a good first day

> Don’t forget what Gram toldja

Atsumu scowls and taps back a reply.

**Unknown number [7:17]**

< fuck you

He stomps towards the door, seething. How dare he have the nerve to tell him to have a “good day” as though the thought of his mere existence hadn’t already ruined it? Fist gripping the handle, he’s ready to yank the door off its hinges when a bright, orange sticky note in the middle of the wood catches his attention. The resentment in his body gets tamped down by confusion, and his brow scrunches a bit as he skims over the note.

_Atsumu-san,_

_Have a good first day of classes! I tried really really hard to be quiet this morning, so I hope you got to sleep in! If you wanna get dinner tonight, text me!!_

_-Shouyou 8)_

Atsumu throws his head back, hands gripping at the side of his face, and resists the urge to scream. Shouyou is too goddamn good for this world. Staving back metaphorical tears, he opens the door and heads to the bathroom.

Upon entering, he locks eyes with the only other person in the room—Tsukishima, if he remembers correctly. Rintarou’s roommate. Atsumu doesn’t remember much about him other than the fact that he’s pretty quiet—and prickly, when spoken to. They had a conversation one of their first days on the hall when Atsumu saw him drinking Starbucks out of a plastic straw.

(“Didja know that plastic straws ain’t even the worst ocean pollutants? The fishin’ industry chucks way more and way worse shit in there. Ugh, ‘nd people are so caught up in their anti-straw campaigns that fisheries keep gettin’ away with it! I wish non-science people did their research before arguing for legislation that ain’t gonna change anything.”)

Over Atsumu’s tirade, Tsukishima avoided eye contact and just generally radiated displeasure through every means possible. As an asshole himself, Atsumu kept prattling on, just to grate on his nerves. If Osamu’s not around to take the brunt of his jackassery, he’ll spread it amongst the masses.

While their one and only interaction can’t be qualified as a success—Tsukishima eventually just fucking _walked off_ — Atsumu finds comfort in Tsukishima’s blatant dickishness. They are comrades in arms in a world of fake smiles and platitudes.

Walking over to the urinals, a smirk tugs at his lips as he starts peeing. If Atsumu talked to him right now, what kind of bland and/or snarky reply would come out? Oh, he’s definitely the type to hate talking while urinating. Atsumu goes for it—there’s nothing to lose, after all. And, besides, it’s been a while since he riled someone up.

“Soooo,” Atsumu starts, staring pointedly at the wall in front of him, “what’cha doin’ up this early?”

He can’t see it, but he can _feel_ the eyeroll that Tsukishima just made in the pregnant pause between them. Atsumu thinks he’s not gonna answer when the sound of his spray stops and a belt buckle clicks. He glances over, and Tsukishima is leveling him with the most bored look Atsumu’s ever seen a person wear (and he’s friends with _Rintarou_ , Jesus christ).

“I have class,” Tsukishima replies, breaking eye contact and walking over to the sink.

“Oh, me too,” Atsumu says. “What class?”

“History lecture.”

Atsumu hums, considering. “Sounds boring as hell, to be honest.” Tsukishima shoots him another unimpressed look as he turns on the faucet. “I’m headed to a Chem lab. Which’ll probably be just as brutal, but at least there’s substance.”

“That’s fair, I guess,” Tsukishima says, gaze turned on the water running over his hands. “Most people just don’t have the patience to appreciate it.”

Atsumu’s eyes widen at the backhanded comment. Truly prickly! Tucking himself back in his pants, he pushes further. “Oh? And what makes you so special, then?”

Tsukishima reaches for the paper towels on the wall. “Oh, I’m nothing special.” He wipes his hands then turns off the faucet, towel still in hand. He finally looks up, an unpleasant grin on his face. “Maybe you’re just not as special as you think you are.”

Atsumu’s jaw drops, an indignant noise leaving his throat against his will. So Tsukishima remembers their conversation earlier, too. A surge of irritation races through his veins, but it’s overwhelmed by a wave of respect. No fucks Tsukishima! Tsukishima’s smile stretches a bit more before his expression falls back to neutral, and he turns to leave the bathroom.

“Man, I like you,” Atsumu says, walking over to the sink. “You’re funny.”

Tsukishima doesn’t turn back, swinging open the door. “I wasn’t trying to be.”

Atsumu hums, a long skeptical note. The type of sound that would have Osamu punching him directly in the jaw. “So,” Atsumu says. “See you here again next week?”

From behind, Atsumu can see Tsukishima’s jaw tighten, a minuscule flicker, before he heads out the door without another word. Atsumu feels a rush of victory run through his veins. Successfully getting under someone’s skin is like a drug. Gram’s words about “shaping up” along with Osamu’s text run through his mind, but he pushes them away. Antagonizing people on purpose is better than being a bitch on accident, right? He ain’t hurtin’ nobody; he can have his fun.

With heightened spirits, Atsumu quickly washes his hands before walking out of the bathroom, a newfound pep in his step.

🧪

After a jaunt across campus, Atsumu finds himself at the chemistry building. It’s a drab thing, dingy windows, and faded red brick—probably built in the ‘70s and left to dilapidate since. It’s okay though, the football team got the mega plasma-screen TV they desperately needed in the stadium.

Atsumu takes the steps to the second floor two at a time—the time he spent wishing for a very localized earthquake to hit his bedroom and put him out of his misery had caused him to be a bit behind schedule. His fingers wrap around the doorknob to the lab just as the clock strikes midnight (Or 7:30am, in his case, and instead of princes and pumpkins, he gets beakers and goggles).

He scans the room and sees that the only seat left is at the lab bench up front. Someone’s already sitting in the other spot, posture straight and eyes facing the front of the room. Everyone else seems to be taking this time to chat—to bond over their shared misery—but this guy is silent. His back is facing Atsumu, so Atsumu allows himself the few moments of walking to the front of the room to unabashedly stare. Mr. Prim and Proper is wearing a horrendously obnoxious neon yellow sweatshirt. Maybe he’s going for the whole aposematic coloration thing: using bright colors as a silent “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Well alas, Atsumu has no other choice but to claim the empty chair. When he plops down on the hard wooden stool, his new partner sends him a glance that, if looks could kill, would have smited Atsumu on the spot.

“Mornin’.” His Gram’s words echo in the back of his mind and he can feel the ghost of her fingers pulling at the skin of his cheeks.

He is met with silence.

Great. Wonderful. First day of class and his lab partner looks like he would rather drink Drain-o than be sitting next to him. Atsumu stares down at the chipped lab bench and tries to cheer himself up by imagining that Osamu is having an even worse morning.

A voice at the front of the room pulls him out of his daydream about poorly discarded banana peels and bowls full of fish guts.

“Good morning, atoms, eves, and all other forms of matter.” Atsumu feels his soul leave his body at the abhorrent greeting. “My name’s Kuroo Tetsurou, and I’m going to be your TA and lab instructor this semester. Now, I know what you’re probably all thinking.” Kuroo pitches his voice into a whiny tone. “ _Why is this so early? It's August, do I have to wear jeans? Am I going to get to blow stuff up?_ ” Kuroo forms his face into an exaggerated pout, earning a few chuckles from the class.

Atsumu flinches from the shrill tone and squints his eyes in judgement. Kuroo’s tall, with a mess of wild hair, and under eye bags big enough for a month long excursion through Europe. He looks like he just crawled up the stairs from the basement to teach their class. Does the chemistry department keep them down there? Locked in little cages only to be set free during class hours and study sessions.

Schooling his face back to normal, Kuroo continues.

“Look, I can’t do a damn thing about the time; believe me, if I could, it wouldn’t be this early. I know it's hot outside, but we don’t ask you to wear this stuff because we want to help you detox and sweat out whatever poisonous concoction you drank at Alpha Beta whatever’s party last night. You’ll be working with actual chemicals that could hurt you, and it’s my ass on the line if you lose a layer of skin or two. And no, sadly you won’t be getting to blow anything up.” He pauses, eyebrows scrunching together, and then shrugs. “ _Well_ , you might actually. Depends on how well you can follow directions.” Kuroo raises his eyebrows and smirks. It’s the biggest shit eating grin Atsumu’s ever seen, and he’s looked at his own reflection.

Atsumu isn’t sure if he should be excited or worried at that prospect.

“The way the lab’s going to work is every week you’ll come up here and grab a packet.” Kuroo lifts a stack of neatly printed papers out of the satchel resting on his desk. “Inside are all the instructions you’ll need to complete that day’s lab. At the end, there will be questions you have to answer and will turn in to me before you leave. You’ll have one week to type up your lab report, and then you’ll give it to me the next week when you come to get a new packet for the lab. Does that make sense to everyone?” The students around the room softly hum and bob their heads in confirmation.

“Ok, the first order of business is checking out your lab drawers. You should all have one in front of you. That’s yours for the semester. Get in there and make sure nothing’s broken or chipped, and if it is we’ll get it replaced, but after today you break, you buy it.” Kuroo continues on about the differences between beakers and flasks as Atsumu opens his drawer—the sound of glass clinking as he does so.

After inspecting his third test tube of the day, Atsumu is fucking bored. He knew that this class wasn’t going to look like the set of a Bill Nye video, but he had been hoping for something a little more riveting than counting glassware in a drawer. Flipping a beaker around in his hands, he checks for any cracks or chips in the glass.

His lab partner is going through his drawer with surgical precision. He’s wearing a mask, lab coat, and gloves, even though they’re not even working with chemicals today. Atsumu wonders if the inky black curls on the top of his head are as soft as they look. Would the guy shatter the flask in his hand to stab Atsumu in the jugular if he tried to reach out and card his hands through them?

He doesn’t get the opportunity to test his hypothesis.

“Stop staring at me.” The voice is curt and clipped, like the guy is pained that he has to waste oxygen speaking to Atsumu.

“I wasn’t starin’.” He totally was, but it’s not like he’s gonna admit it.

Atsumu decides a change in topic is in order.

“So, what’s yer name? I’m Miya Atsumu but ya can just call me Atsumu. Everyone does.” A familiar curdle in his gut strikes when he offers up his first name.

 _Get your shit together Atsumu_ , he mentally chides himself. He can’t go around moping like a kicked puppy every time he introduces himself.

Atsumu’s lab partner has the social skills of a snapping turtle. He shoots Atsumu another icy side glare before delicately wiping the flask in his hand with a wet wipe.

Okay, so that’s what it’s going to be like. Fine. Atsumu’s childish stubbornness comes to play in full force and he turns his attention back down to the glass in his hands. This one’s got a crack that runs like spider silk along the side.

“Sakusa.” It’s so fast that Atsumu almost doesn’t catch it. He turns back to look at Sakusa, who is now inspecting a vial.

“So, no first name? Ya doin the whole one name thing? Like Zoro, or the Rock? Well, I guess the Rock is technically two words, so that doesn’t count.” Sakusa lets out a long suffering sigh. Atsumu waits, drumming his fingers across the benchtop. He enjoys watching Sakusa’s jaw tighten and his forehead crease ever so slightly with irritation. Listen, Atsumu tried to play nice, but if Sakusa’s not going to put in the effort then why should he? If ya can’t take the heat, then get out of the kitchen.

“I don’t understand why you’re so instant on knowing, but it’s Kiyoomi.” His eyes narrow a fraction tighter—a warning. “Just because you’re privy to that information _does not_ grant you the right to use it, though.” Atsumu rolls his eyes. Jeez, this guy must have a stick shoved so far up his ass his tongue has splinters.

“Fine, fine, whatever. Sakusa. So, what’s with the getup?” Atsumu gestures broadly to his entire form. True, they are in a chemistry lab, but Kuroo had told them that PPE wasn’t necessary for today, and yet Sakusa is decked out like he’s about to step into an operating room.

Atsumu is met with another withering glare and he doesn’t miss the tiny wrinkle that forms in Sakusa’s brow.

“This is a public lab. It’s dirty.” Sakusa states this as if it is the most blatantly obvious thing in the world. As if Atsumu hasn’t eaten a plethora of foods off the ground simply because Osamu had dared him to and Atsumu was too stubborn (or stupid) to back down. (He’d only thrown up a handful of times.)

“So, how long hav’ya been here?” Atsumu drags a finger across the black stone and it comes away squeaky clean. This lab is early, way too fucking early, and something a lot scarier than germs was going to have to be threatening him to pull his ass out of bed a second earlier.

“Since seven,” Sakusa says as he wipes down the set of spatulas and tweezers in his drawer. Atsumu lets out a low whistle, but doesn’t say anything. Like it or not, Atsumu is stuck with Sakusa for at least the next thirteen weeks, and even he’s smart enough to know that poking at someone’s phobia is a great way to quickly ruin any semblance of a partnership.

Kuroo comes over to check on their status. Atsumu’s broken beaker is haphazardly tossed into a bucket of glass to be carried away to some landfill, never to be used again. He’s sure his Gram could untangle some metaphor there but Atsumu just focuses on settling his new shiny beaker into its rightful place.

For the rest of the lab, they’re supposed to take some example data files, create a variety of graphs, and perform some elementary statistics. Anyone under the age of forty has a firm grasp on how to use Excel—and even if they don’t Youtube exists for a reason—but Atsumu settles down and takes the easy A.

Sakusa pulls a sleek silver MacBook Air out from his backpack and Atsumu rolls his eyes. Of course he isn’t just a prick, he’s a rich prick too.

Atsumu’s laptop is a little battered and worn on the edges, but he’d mowed lawns, raked leaves, and shoveled snow for an entire year to buy it, and then proceeded to fight off Osamu every time the bastard tried to use it without permission. It’s not perfect, but it’s his—and that in itself is a luxury for a twin.

He clicks through the document easily enough—really, it's elementary stuff—and glances over at Sakusa, who is staring at the screen impassively.

“So, what’s yer major?” It’s been a whole five minutes since Atsumu opened his mouth and the silence is killing him. Sakusa shoots him a look like Atsumu is a piece of gum on a hot summer sidewalk that had the _audacity_ to be under the heel of his shoe.

“Why does it matter?” he deadpans. It seems as if Atsumu is destined to only interact with prickly assholes on this fine Monday morning. Whatever, Sakusa Kiyoomi is just another name on a growing list of people he can inflict his ire on in Osamu’s absence.

“Well, aren’t you just a joy to be around.” The words have bite—sharp like the edge of a knife—but Atsumu feels like he deserves some slack on this one. If someone’s gonna be an asshole to him, you better believe that Atsumu is going to give it back to them as good as he’s got.

The rest of lab goes by quickly. Atsumu gets his Excel sheet done in record time, and when he stands to exit the room, Sakusa is still sitting, meticulously looking over all of his charts and graphs.

“See ya in lecture, Sakusa.” He would have thought the other man didn’t hear him if it weren’t for a small, noncommittal hum. Atsumu rolls his eyes and leaves. This is going to be a loooonnggggg semester.

When he exits the building, the sun has risen and campus is no longer a ghost town. His next class isn’t until one, but Atsumu really doesn’t want to go sit in his room for the next couple hours.

There is a slight buzz in his pocket and he pulls out his phone, hoping that it’s Shouyou asking if he’s free.

Atsumu’s face falls when he sees the text across his home screen.

**Unknown Number [9:34]**

> Bet I’m havin a better mornin than you, scrub.

> [ _Image_ ]

Begrudgingly, Atsumu opens the text to see a picture of a sheet pan full of delicious looking danishes. His mouth starts to water as his brain conjures up the thought of how amazing they must smell, and how warm they would be as he sunk his teeth into the raspberry-filled center.

Atsumu scowls and begins to punch his fingers against the screen.

**Unknown Number [9:36]**

< They sure do look fine. But not as fine as my chem lab partner this semester, scrub. And they probably taste like shit.

The thought that Sakusa is attractive comes unexpectedly, but unfortunately feels natural. He _is_ attractive physically, and _only_ physically, but even with his severe personality, Atsumu hadn’t hated their time together this morning.

Atsumu shakes his head, dislodging that thought before it has time to take root. _Nope_.

He sends Shouyou a quick text, but by the time Atsumu reaches his dorm, he still hasn’t received a response. A wicked smile spreads across his face as he passes by Room 449. There are a collection of little paper cut outs of umbrellas, suns, and surf boards taped to the frame—their floor’s theme is “Fun In The Sun,” so everything from the hallway bulletin boards to the lounge room is decked out in garish summer decorations. Scrawled across half of the cut outs is the name of Atsumu’s new bathroom buddy, but on the other’s, Rintarou's name is printed.

Perfect.

With zero regards for the room’s inhabitants, Atsumu raises both his fists and begins to pound against the wood. This goes on for several moments until the door is wrenched open and Atsumu has to stop his momentum, narrowly missing Rintarou’s nose.

“Someone better be dead and please let that someone be you.” Atsumu shoulders past Rintarou and ignores the icy glare.

“Good morin’ to you, too, sunshine. Didja sleep well? No monsters in the closet? Does Tsukishima snore? I bet he hangs from the ceiling like a bat.” He plops down on the bed on the left hand side of the room—the familiar scent of the laundry detergent Rintarou’s mom uses wafting around him. It reminds him of late nights huddled around a TV screen and wrestling on the couch.

Rintarou still stands in the doorway—far too accustomed with Atsumu’s shenanigans to be thrown off by this turn of events.

“Get out.” He pushes the door open a little wider with his foot.

“Aw, come on, Sunarin, don’t be like that. I’ll buy ya a coffee if ya come hang out with me before your class.” Atsumu completes the request with a pouty lower lip.

Rintarou’s gaze narrows, as if he is contemplating whether to take Atsumu up on his offer or whether he could get a dead body down to the main floor without arousing any suspicion. Finally, he lets the door slide closed.

“I’m getting a venti.” Atsumu’s smile returns tenfold as he begins to get ready. Atsumu lays flat on his back and looks up at the poster of some anime that Rintarou hung on the ceiling. It’s got a bunch of guys in sports uniforms on it and one of the kids appears to be spiking a volleyball.

Ugh, sports anime—boring.

“So, where’s your first class? My next one isn’t ’til one, so we can get coffee by whatever building you’ll be in.”

“I don’t have class today. Only on Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. Get your nasty fucking feet off my bed and let’s go.” Atsumu shoots him a baffled expression as they leave the room and walk back down the hallway from which Atsumu just came.

“Fuckin’ econ majors. What do you even do in class? Just sit around learnin’ how to count money and exploit the lower class?” Rintarou hums as he presses the button for the elevator.

“Yeah, something like that.”

Since Rintarou is a bastard and doesn’t have class, Atsumu gets to pick one of the plethora of coffee shops scattered about campus. They’re at one closer to the building where his next lecture would be—seated outside at one of the little black wire tables.

Rintarou, of course, orders 20 ounces of piping hot liquid tar, while Atsumu happily orders what Osamu always disgustingly referred to as “300 empty calories of liquid sugar _”_. He happily sips his java chip frappuccino through a cute striped paper straw and sends Osamu a mental _fuck you_.

“So, how is rooming with Tsukishima?” Atsumu asks after filling Rintarou in on his strained chemistry lab with Sakusa.

Atsumu decides for his sake—and little Atsumu’s—that it would probably be best to _not_ try and get into Sakusa’s pants, or maybe his lab coat in this case. The guy probably kept his mask during sex, if he had sex at all.

“He’s still tall, blond, and a dick, but I’ve been friends with you for years, so I’m used to it.” Atsumu gives a dramatic gasp.

“I am _nothing_ like that.” Rintarou hums a thoughtful note.

“You’re right. At least Tsukishima is a natural blond.” Atsumu chokes on the mouthful of chocolatey goodness he had just slurped up, and Rintarou’s expression doesn’t change from its deadpan default.

“I need to make some new friends,” he grumbles as he wipes off some of the spittle that sprayed onto the table.

“Please do.” Rintarou says right as he snaps a quick picture of Atsumu with a line of chocolatey drool running down his chin. It gets over 100 likes on Instagram and Atsumu _really_ decides he needs to get new friends.

🧪

On Thursday, Kiyoomi finds himself having lunch with Motoya on the outdoor terrace. Blessedly, Motoya was able to align their schedules for the required Intro Bio lab, which saves Kiyoomi the pain of introducing a stranger to his sanitization rituals and rigid, in-lab expectations. At this point, it’s not like Kiyoomi _cares_ about other people’s opinions or unintentional rude comments regarding his mysophobia, but his life is much easier when he can avoid the endeavor entirely. He was actually pleasantly surprised by his chem lab partner on Monday; the guy looks like a complete bastard, but actually didn’t comment much on his routine, other than his initial jab at Kiyoomi’s “getup.” Miya Atsumu, was it?

A streak of blond flashes in Kiyoomi’s peripheral vision, and he looks up from his sandwich. Speak of the devil.

Miya is a few meters away, holding a disposable coffee cup in his hand. His head is turned towards the shorter guy next to him who’s sipping his own drink, a visible look of displeasure on his face visible even from a distance. Kiyoomi’s eyebrow raises unwittingly—who knew people as cocksure and dickish as Miya had friends? Though judging off of the other man’s expression, maybe “friend” is a stretch.

Kiyoomi feels something tap against his shoe under the table. He shifts his gaze to Motoya, who’s wearing quite the amused smirk.

“Who’re you looking at?” Motoya asks, tone light, maybe even teasing.

Kiyoomi looks back to the duo strolling side by side. Thanks to the direction they’re headed, they’ve hooked a slight right, so Kiyoomi can no longer see Miya’s face. Motoya follows his line of sight, cocking his head to the side.

“Did Sakusa make a new friend at school without telling his good ol’ cousin?” Motoya sticks his bottom lip out in a dramatic pout. Kiyoomi scoffs.

“No. The piss-poor dye job blond is my lab partner for Chem; his name is Miya.” Even though Miya told him to call him Atsumu, Kiyoomi doesn’t like being so informal with people he’s just met. He’s just a product of his upbringing, after all.

“Oh?” Motoya straightens in his seat, leaning forward a little.

“Is he a cool guy?”

Kiyoomi feels his expression pinch into something like disgust, and Motoya cackles, nose scrunching. “He’s that bad?”

Kiyoomi thinks about the limited time they’ve spent together. Despite being relatively considerate about Kiyoomi’s mysophobia, he was still annoying as shit in every other way—just blatantly staring when he thought Kiyoomi wasn't paying attention, completely overlooking all of Kiyoomi’s social cues that implored him to shut the fuck up, badgering him throughout the lab with random questions. The guy had a fuckboy face, outfit, and attitude. Unfortunately, Kiyoomi is attracted physically to these types, but Miya’s personality far outweighs Kiyoomi’s mild, visual interest.

Kiyoomi finishes off his sandwich and stands, gathering his trash in his hands. “It’s 12:15, we need to head to lab.” He yanks up the disposable mask resting on his chin to emphasize the point.

Motoya clicks his tongue, following behind Kiyoomi. “Damn, you won’t even tell me. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.”

Kiyoomi side eyes him, then pointedly slams his containers into the trash bin. The lid flips on itself—once, twice, thrice—as he pulls out his bottle of hand sanitizer in his pocket. Motoya chuckles madly and tosses his own waste. “Got it.”

They make quick time in reaching the Biology building, but finding the lab room itself is a different matter. The hallways twist and turn without a defined pattern; even when it seems like they’re following the maps tacked up in the hallways perfectly, they ultimately end up somewhere off course.

After a third wrong turn, Kiyoomi feels a headache building behind his temples. They still have plenty of time to sanitize their bench—especially with Motoya's help—but the unexpected delay leaves his skin feeling itchy.

A minute later, they finally step into the correct lab, which is tucked into the most obscure corner of the building possible. Kiyoomi mentally notes to look for the closest exit adjacent to the room after class—he will _not_ be traversing the hellscape of the Biology building like that again.

They take out their lab equipment from their backpacks—goggles, lab coats, and, most importantly, nitrile gloves—and gear up. Kiyoomi produces two bottles of ethanol along with a pack of Kimwipes, as well, and they start wiping down the glassware in their drawer. The process is familiar and methodical, and Kiyoomi lets the squeak of cloth against glass soothe his nerves. Motoya stays silent as well, content to follow Kiyoomi’s pace.

Growing up with mysophobia in the Sakusa household was no walk in the park, but Motoya has been around from the start, making the unbearable days less suffocating and the good days even better. Kiyoomi’s triggers grew slowly starting in late grade school, escalating to its worst in their final year of middle school before he got a proper diagnosis. Through it all, Motoya was there, never once judgemental or even overly sympathetic. But the best part was that, even when Kiyoomi was at his lowest, he never treated Kiyoomi like he needed to be handled with care (like his mother) or whipped into shape (like his father)—he just interacted with him _normally_ , doing his best to avoid what he knew could rattle him, without needing a reminder. Motoya is unconditionally considerate, and Kiyoomi has learned the hard way that people like him are hard to come by—and even harder to keep.

So even though Motoya is on occasion too loud in public or too meddling in Kiyoomi’s other affairs, Kiyoomi still remembers the overwhelming amount of relief he felt when he learned that they were going to the same university. It was completely fortuitous—Motoya wants to go into veterinary science, and their college has the best program in the country—but having someone who Kiyoomi _knew_ knew and respected him helped ease the tightening in his chest that happened anytime there was a drastic change, a new slew of unknowns. And they get to take prerequisite classes together for their first couple of years, sparing Kiyoomi from sitting close to strangers who would either scoff at his mannerisms or—even worse—offer him some paltry attempt at sympathy.

Ultimately, Motoya is the only other person in Kiyoomi’s life who he fully trusts beyond himself. And sometimes it’s nice to not feel so alone when cleaning your glassware.

With a final swipe, Kiyoomi sets down his last beaker and moves to wipe down the bench and chairs. The change in position brings reality back with it, and he notices that the room has filled in, most stations now occupied by a complete pair of partners now. Kiyoomi checks his watch—class starts in a minute.

Bench fully sanitized, Kiyoomi and Motoya sit down just as the door opens, a rather nicely dressed man with a clipboard under his arm walking in with a smile on his face. So, the TA then. But before the door can shut, a shoe wedges its way between the doorframe and blocks its path. The TA’s eyes widen in surprise as a _bang_ reverberates through the room, the shoe kicking against the door to rudely fling it open. Kiyoomi’s lips curl up in displeasure as the sight of the flippant shoe-owner comes fully into view—but of course, who else is it but Miya? Hands in his pockets, he strolls into the room, completely unperturbed by his abrasive entrance and near tardiness.

Motoya chuckles a beat to his right, and Kiyoomi gives him a nasty side eye before returning his attention to their TA. Kiyoomi purposely chose a bench relatively far from the door, so Miya hasn’t looked in his direction yet, scouting the front of the room for an open spot, and Kiyoomi hopes it stays that way.

“Hey, you can sit with me!” A guy yells from their row, waving a hand wildly in the air. Kiyoomi’s eye twitches from the sudden noise and curses his luck. He laughs to himself darkly, though—this guy has no idea the misfortune he’s brought upon himself.

Miya whips around at the call, eyes landing on its source. The boy is short, his brown hair spiked up and back with a shock of blond hanging loosely over his forehead. Miya grins, a lazy thing, and walks over. Just as he whips around the table, his gaze flickers across the row, and his eyebrows perk up as he recognizes Kiyoomi. Sitting down, Miya leans forward in his seat and shoots Kiyoomi a wink. Kiyoomi’s eyes narrow with disgust, letting his glare linger pointedly before turning back to the front of the room. Motoya giggles again at his expense, but the TA has started talking, so he ignores him in favor of his education.

“Hi everyone,” the man begins. “My name’s Sawamura Daichi, but you can call me Daichi.” The corner of his mouth flickers up for a moment. “I’m what the kids these days call ‘hip.’” Daichi, as well as a couple of others, chuckle at his bad joke—he can’t be but a few years older than the students in the lab. Kiyoomi’s eyebrows lift the slightest bit, not because the remark was funny, but because Daichi’s whole disposition is incredibly endearing. His low voice, coupled with his gentle smile as he speaks, is a calming thing, reminding Kiyoomi of the ASMR he listens to when he needs to calm down. “I’m gonna go over some important things about Bio lab and safety and such, and then we’ll jump right into today’s experiment. Should be a quick one.”

Daichi’s introductory spiel is thorough but concise, just like how Kiyoomi does things and likes things done (unlike Kuroo, who’s got an annoying voice and even worse jokes). An intrusive thought worms its way into Kiyoomi’s mind—wondering about the relationship status of this very attractive man—but he quickly smacks it aside. His parents' passive aggressive words about college being for “furthering his education and nothing else” help shatter the notion entirely. Besides, it’s his lab TA. This isn’t a third-rate romance novel.

“Alright, with that out of the way, let’s get to today’s lab. Everyone’s gonna need to collect some equipment from the boxes on the side tables, as well as a lab notebook from the front of the room. Go forth.” Daichi finishes with a smile, and everyone stands, mumbles filling the room in tandem. Kiyoomi’s brow furrows. Why do students, from elementary school all through university, feel the need to immediately start talking once the teacher’s finished? It’s something he’ll never understand.

“Aye, Kiyoomi, I’ll grab the lab stuff if you get the notebooks,” Motoya says. Kiyoomi nods his thanks and begins to walk off when a slew of footsteps slap against the floor behind him, and suddenly Miya is at his side. Kiyoomi takes a step back from him, not at all trying to hide his displeasure.

“Wait, wait, why does _he_ get to call ya by your first name? That’s lab partner discrimination,” Miya asks without a hint of shame on his features. He really has the emotional intelligence of a child, huh. Kiyoomi shoots him a withering glare, wishing that his curls would suddenly transform into snakes and turn Miya into stone. Stones can’t talk, after all. (Though snake hair would be pretty awful.)

As he casually contemplates murder, Motoya turns back around, flashing Miya a giant grin. “Kiyoomi and I are cousins! So I’ve known him a lot longer than you, don’t worry. It’s nothing personal.”

Kiyoomi is about to say that, despite Motoya familial status, it definitely _is_ personal, when Miya speaks up first, “Oh, wow. Saddled with Mr. Grumpyface for eighteen whole years. I applaud ya, uh...” He trails off, raising his eyebrows in request. “What’s yer name?”

The literal tact of a grade schooler.

“Komori. And it really hasn’t been bad at all.” He snickers, glancing at Sakusa. “He’s prickly on the outside, but a pretty good dude once you get to know him.”

Sakusa raises his eyebrow quizzically—he’s an ass through and through, and Motoya most certainly knows it—but Miya chuckles at the sentiment. “Mhmm. Like a sea urchin.” His hand lifts to his chin, and his eyes flicker to the ceiling in thought. “Though they don’t have much goin’ on up in their insides, just some sacks of gonads. They’re soft ‘nd squishy, though. Yummy if prepped well, too.” Miya lowers his gaze, flashing a shit eating grin at Kiyoomi. He opens his mouth to deliver what’s bound to be a vulgar punchline, so Kiyoomi cuts him off as a favor.

“I’m leaving.” He starts to walk away when Miya yelps, reaching out to grab at his jacket. Kiyoomi’s eyes widen instinctively and he flinches, a spike of anxiety running up his spine. Upon Kiyoomi’s reaction, Miya instantly pulls back before his hand can make contact. He hovers there, eyes on Kiyoomi’s, expression almost thoughtful. A moment later, he drops his arm, his lips once again morphing into a smirk.

The threat of Miya’s touch now gone, Kiyoomi feels the tension instantly drain out of his shoulders. Kiyoomi’s eyes narrow as he considers what just happened. After a temporary lapse in memory, Miya must’ve remembered Kiyoomi’s behaviors from Monday. Not only that, he changed his own course of action to ensure Kiyoomi’s comfortability—all without saying a single word. Emotional intelligence? Displayed by Miya Atsumu? Very interesting.

“Okay, but regardless of y’all’s relationship status—” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, how can this man be so socially _dense_ , “—can I call you Kiyoomi? S’not fair.” Miya crosses his arms, his eyebrows furrowing as his bottom lip juts out just a touch. Is he really fucking _pouting_? In the middle of _lab_?

Upon being reminded of where he is, Kiyoomi scans the room. Most people are headed back to their seats, arms full of equipment. His skin begins prickling beneath the surface. He hates feeling behind and unprepared.

Kiyoomi goes to side step Miya, having elected to ignore his question, when Miya follows his path, physically _blocking_ him with his body. The fucking audacity! A surge of annoyance shoots through Kiyoomi, the embers under his skin breaking out into a fire. He hears footsteps retreat behind him, likely Motoya escaping the situation before he can be swept up in the collateral damage.

“How ‘bout Omi?” Miya asks, completely ignorant of Sakusa’s ire. “That’s technically not your first name.”

Almost everyone has sat back down by now, and Kiyoomi feels droplets of sweat collect on his palms under gloves. In any other context, he’d be _hissing_ at Miya to step aside, to back the fuck off and stop bothering him. But the room is too quiet—the students couldn’t be chatting up a fucking storm _now_ when he needs it, Jesus Christ—and Kiyoomi knows that if he lashes out, Miya will just bite back and turn it into a whole scene for everyone, including Daichi, to see. Daichi, who works in God knows whose faculty lab in the building. Kiyoomi desperately doesn’t need his reputation in the Biology department to be tarnished before he can even interview for a research position. So, physically and mentally backed into a corner, he says, “If I say yes, will you shut up and go away?”

Something flashes in Miya’s eyes—much too complacent—and he steps aside, clearing the path. Kiyoomi doesn’t even wait for his response as he brushes past, doing everything in his power to keep his steps crisp but unhurried, even as an inferno blazes inside of him.

He grabs two notebooks and picks up his pace just the slightest as he pivots back around, sensing the myriad of eyes on him. His ass is in his chair within the next ten seconds. Blessedly, everyone’s attention shifts from him to Miya, who’s only half way across the room on his way back from picking up his supplies.

Several more grueling seconds pass by of Miya walking—no, _lumbering_ —back to his seat, completely oblivious as to how he’s holding up the class. Something strikes Kiyoomi in that moment—Miya is likely completely aware of how his actions are affecting other people, he just doesn’t _care_. Kiyoomi’s impression of Miya, simply put, worsens.

Finally, Miya makes it back to his bench, setting down the collection of test tubes and micropipettes. Daichi’s gaze flicks from him to the rest of the class as he launches into an explanation of today’s lab. Kiyoomi tries to focus, but he can see Miya leaning forward out of his peripheral vision, his hand waving back and forth on the table in what he probably thinks is in a surreptitious manner. (Reality check: It is not.)

When ten seconds have passed and Miya hasn’t let up, Kiyoomi gives in, knowing that the rest of class will be continually insufferable if he doesn’t. He turns his head just the slightest towards Miya and pins him with the most unamused gaze he can muster. Miya finally stops his waving. Eyebrows lifting, he stares back and mouths a few words, his lips twisting and touching into the shape of repetitive syllables: _Omi-Omi_.

The mild headache from earlier in the hallway comes back and strikes Kiyoomi with a vengeance, his skull practically splitting in two. His jaw tightens as well, his entire head packed so full of pressure, he’s surprised it hasn’t blown up and impaled itself into the ceiling. But rather than revealing to Miya his inner turmoil, he simply stares at him for a moment longer before turning back to the front. Out of the corner of his eye, Kiyoomi can see Miya visibly collapse onto the table as he lets out an undamped huff (in the middle of class while the teacher’s talking—the throb in Kiyoomi’s head worsens).

Kiyoomi waits a few more seconds before chancing a tiny glance back to his left. Miya’s head is pillowed on his arms on the table, his lip jutting out in the fattest pout Kiyoomi has ever seen. His lips curl reflexively into a smirk, but he doesn’t stop them, his face mask hiding his triumph. Miya deserves to sulk.

As his face falls back to neutral, a piece of paper is pushed under his nose from the right. Kiyoomi bemusedly side eyes Motoya before looking down at the front page of their lab notebook. In the margins, Motoya’s messy script reads, “Earlier on the terrace, he was a bit too far away, but I can see why you were staring now. 👀”

A pulse of pain shoots through Kiyoomi’s head upon reading that terrible, terrible sentence.

That’s it. The last straw.

Kiyoomi takes out his pen, as though to write a response back. While Motoya blinks at him in shock, most certainly not expecting a reply, Kiyoomi glances at the floor to estimate Motoya’s position. Cost-benefit assessed, risk calculated, Kiyoomi brings his heel back _hard_ into the front of Motoya’s shin. Motoya instinctively yelps, but he swallows it down last minute, resulting in a strangled, gurgling noise. Daichi sends their bench a quick glance, his eyebrows furrowing minutely in concern, but Sakusa stares back blankly—pen resting on his paper, looking like a responsible, note-taking student—as Motoya gapes like a fish to his right.

Daichi’s gaze doesn’t linger as he continues with the lesson plan, but the damage is done. Motoya leans forward and stares at Sakusa with the most ludicrous expression, eyes bugging out of his head while his lips are pulled into a straight “bro, what the actual _fuck_ ” line.

With Daichi’s attention on lecture, Kiyoomi actually does write a response next to Motoya’s. Without lifting his gaze from the front, he pushes the notebook back to his shitty cousin.

Kiyoomi’s headache is momentarily dampened by the rush of self-satisfaction he feels as Motoya shudders upon reading the words:

“Talk to me about Miya again, and next time, it’ll be much worse.”

🧪

By the time Kiyoomi drags himself back to his dorm room at the end of the day, exhaustion has steeped its way into every fiber of his being. He starts methodically going through his evening ritual—toeing off his shoes and lining them by the door, then peeling off his clothes and stepping under the hot spray of his shower. The warm water beats down on his skull, and takes with it the tightness in his temples, as it swirls down the drain.

If there was ever a moment where he was extraordinarily grateful for his parents, it was this one. Typically, freshmen weren’t allowed to get a room in this dorm—something about how communal bathrooms facilitates _bonding_ —but they’d pulled a few strings, waved a couple thousand yen, and now here he is in his own private room with an attached en suite.

The thought of his parents causes the lead that precipitated in his bones to grow a couple kilograms heavier. They’re insisting on video chatting tonight to check up and see how Kiyoomi’s first week has gone, but the only thing he has any interest in doing is collapsing into bed and hibernating for the next week.

He allows himself a few extra moments in the shower to gather his mental fortitude before turning the faucet off and getting out. The stress of today bleeds out of his shoulders as he takes the time to go through his skincare routine. Patterns, cycles, formulas—they all help silence the unrelenting buzzing in his head. Kiyoomi’s schedule is sacred to him; the world is vast and full of pandemonium, but he can at least control himself and his own actions.

Twenty minutes later, he is tucked underneath his comforter with his laptop. His parents pick up on the first ring.

“Kiyoomi, darling, it’s so good to see you!” They’re nestled next to each other on the couch in the living room. Kiyoomi feels a slight pang of homesickness in his chest as he sits alone in his rickety twin bed miles away.

“We spoke to each other just the other day, Mom.” He can’t help the soft smile that spreads across his face. Even though he’s enjoying his newfound freedom, he does miss them.

“How were classes today? Did you email Professor Washijo?”

“It’s the first week of class, so most of my professors are just going over the syllabus. And yes, Dad, I emailed him. We’re meeting two weeks from now.” Kiyoomi’s father scoffs.

“Two weeks? I’ll call him tomorrow. There’s no reason for you to wait that long. You should be getting into the labs as soon as possible.” Kiyoomi feels the fragments of his migraine from earlier begin to pull themselves together again. His father always does this—bullying those around him until he gets what he wants.

His mother jumps to his rescue, bringing a hand to rest on his father’s shoulder. “Oh, honey, two weeks won’t make a big difference. Plus, this gives Kiyoomi time to learn the campus and get a handle on his classes before he adds on the extra responsibility of being in the lab.” She gives him a placating smile before turning back to Kiyoomi, her eyes glowing with pride. “Gosh, I can’t believe my baby boy is all grown up. It seems like just yesterday I was changing your diapers, and now you’re in college!”

“Yes, it’s fascinating how time continues to move forward.” Neither of his parents respond to his sarcastic remark.

“Your father and I just want you to know how proud we are of you. Think of all the amazing things you’ll be able to do with microbiology! Once you get your PhD, there’s no limit to what you can do.”

“Well, that’s quite a ways off,” Kiyoomi says dryly. He knows she only ever means well when she preens like this, but that doesn’t stop his gut from curling at having to face the prospect of his future—the certitude of their expectations.

“That’s true, but it’s never too early to start planning ahead,” his father cuts in. Kiyoomi feels his jaw clench unwittingly—diversion spectacularly failed. “Your brother and sister are both where they are now because they took advantage of the opportunities presented to them early on in undergrad, before any of their classmates could snatch ‘em up under their nose.” He makes a grabby motion in the air, flashing Kiyoomi a winning smile. “Which is why I’ll get you an appointment with Tanji ASAP, okay?”

Kiyoomi nods stiffly. His father’s smile brightens—either he can’t tell through the grainy video or just doesn’t notice his discomfort. His mother’s eyes flick between them anxiously, but she just purses her lips tighter, keeping her thoughts to herself.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, Kiyoomi clears his throat. “Well, I don’t think next week will be particularly busy either, so just let me know when the meeting is.” He looks down at his nails, then back up again. “You know when my classes are, so anytime other than then.”

“Of course,” his father agrees. “I’ll CC you in the email, so it should all run smoothly from here.”

Desperate to get away from this topic, Kiyoomi grits out an uneasy _Thanks_ and leads the conversation to somewhere, anywhere but not here. He wasn’t lying when he said that not much has happened this week, though, so the call finishes within the next ten minutes; his parents give him blindingly bright smiles before he ends the call, screen cutting to black.

Kiyoomi lets out a shuddering breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding as he gently closes the screen. He plugs his laptop into its charger—setting it on his bedside table—before laying in bed, staring up at the stark white plaster of his ceiling. Even though all of his energy is drained, his mind races as his parents’ words echo through his thoughts.

It isn’t as if he _dislikes_ microbiology. The material is interesting enough—the rigid structure and sterile environment are soothing—but Kiyoomi finds himself craving something _more_.

He remembers gallivanting through the streets with the other children as a kid; they were fearless explorers on a quest to discover the unknown. Their backyards morphed into faraway lands with the power of an imagination and whimsy only a child can possess. No stone was left unturned, no nook or cranny uncharted, and when they returned home in the evening, their pockets were overflowing with their treasures.

Even now, he can effortlessly recall the warm feeling of the sun against his cheeks and the smell of earth in his hair. The world had been his playground, a vast expanse of mysteries just waiting to be solved, and he had vowed to reveal each and every single one of them.

But then something changed.

Like most things, it had started off small. At first, he began to hate the feeling of sweat against his skin or the idea of touching things in public, but then it soon crept quietly into other aspects of his life. Eventually, it became all encompassing, and he couldn’t complete a single task without the paralyzing fear of contamination at the forefront of his thoughts.

When interacting with other children his age, he began to realize that something was _wrong_ with him. None of the other kids were ever overcome with the compulsion to scrub their hands under blistering hot water until the skin was rubbed raw. They never lost sleep when they stayed the night at a friend’s—laying rigid under unfamiliar covers—and wondering how many skin cells lay packed into the fibers.

Even still, Kiyoomi had always clung to his dreams, telling himself that somehow he could make it work, he could do it if he just _believed_ hard enough. When he was diagnosed though, reality came crashing in like a heavy stone against a delicate windowpane: Kiyoomi would never be _normal_ again.

He watched the future he had spent the last decade imagining—a life full of exploration and wonder—slip through his fingers like sand, and now the adventure he yearns for is just out of reach, shining bright on the other side of a glass barrier Kiyoomi himself has erected.

 _Enough_ , Kiyoomi thinks to himself. He shifts in bed once again, drawing his comforter up to his chin, as if it will shield him from the restless thoughts.

What’s in the past must remain there; there’s no use dwelling on the lost dreams of a child who had no real understanding of the world. Things _change_ and you have to adapt to survive. Kiyoomi can still find fulfillment in his life, even if this isn’t the path ten-year-old him had thought he would be walking down.

But even as he scrunches his eyes closed, and desperately wills his mind to find peace, his thoughts continue to wander. The bright happy smiles of his parents flash through his mind, and his stomach twists with a complicated combination of anger and guilt.

They mean well, deep down he knows they truly do, but they just don’t understand.

Whenever his parents speak about his siblings, they sound so damn _proud_ , and Kiyoomi hears that same tone in their voice when they talk about him pursuing microbiology.

Despite his phobia, Kiyoomi has fond memories of his childhood. His parents were strict and not always the warmest people, but they had not been unkind. He knew they loved him, even if they still didn’t quite understand him and his phobia—they tried their best. After everything they had sacrificed to provide for him and his siblings, he wants to show them that their efforts haven’t gone to waste.

When he would speak to them about his vision—how he wanted to trek the globe like his idols on TV and spend his days learning about the natural world—they would always give him a wry smile and a dismissive pat on the head.

 _“Children and their imaginations. So silly sometimes,”_ his mother would always say.

It was disheartening to watch them dismiss his dreams so flagrantly, but Kiyoomi knew that they only wanted what was best for him—that they just want their children to succeed in life.

He lets out a huff and rolls over onto his side, burying his face into his pillow. This is _fine_. Everything is fine.

Microbiology is a noble career, and he can do a lot of good if he decides to pursue something like medicine development. He can be happy doing this. He _will_ be happy doing this, or at least that is what he tries to convince himself as he finally begins to drift off to sleep.

But every time he plays that mantra—driving it deeper and deeper into his skull—there’s a small voice in the back of his head, shakily asking him if he might be happier doing something else.

He always elects not to answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed, please leave a kudos and/or a comment and/or a [retweet](https://twitter.com/rinpanna)! We've had so much fun working on this project, and we want to know if you guys like it, too! We don't have a regular update schedule, but we have the next couple of chapters written, so expect something within the next few weeks.
> 
> Follow Avery on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/a_very_smolfrog) for updates on the fic, haikyuu brain rot, and other shenanigans.
> 
> Follow Anna on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/a_very_smolfrog/status/1352024408542515200?s=20) for updates on the fic, Hinata Harem worship, and cursed emojis.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back 8) this time it's anna here to say hi in the chapter notes. 👋👋  
> somethin' we didn't say first chapter but is probably evident is that we're basing the school year/structure on american universities, bc that is the STEM torture avery and I have had to suffer thru  
> enjoy chapter 2!

Kiyoomi has never understood people’s disdain for Mondays—his routine every morning is the same, no matter the day. But now that the start of the week has been marred by the human stain that is Miya Atsumu, he finds himself sympathizing with the world’s general population.

Every morning, Kiyoomi likes to begin his day with a quick shower and a warm mug of tea. It allows him to shake the grogginess of sleep, and he now especially appreciates the time, because it gives him the opportunity to mentally prepare himself for three hours of working at the same bench as Miya. 

He takes a long sigh and drains the last bit of liquid in his mug—it’s only been three weeks, but the days have dragged on, and Kiyoomi has felt every minute of the past 504—ah, no—512 hours. It’s not just Miya, though he certainly doesn’t make Kiyoomi’s life any easier, just the extra pressure and mental toll of college in general. 

And whoever decided that chemistry labs should be scheduled at 7:30am deserves to stub their toe on every table corner and never have their marinara sauce stick to their pasta. 

The walk across campus to the chemistry building is pleasant—the heat of August is finally fading as September creeps in—and Kiyoomi arrives at seven as usual. His disinfecting routine goes much quicker now that he is comfortable in the space, and he has time to flip through his and Miya’s lab report from last week as the rest of his classmates trickle into the lab. 

Miya arrives just as class begins, as usual, and gives Kiyoomi a dopey, sleepy smile as he plops down on the stool. 

Thankfully, Kuroo begins to speak, so Miya doesn’t have the opportunity to open his mouth and plummet Kiyoomi’s mental stability first thing in the morning. 

“Good mornin’, kiddos. Today you all will be,” Kuroo squints at the lab reports in his hand, “exploring atoms through flames tests and atomic emission spectra. So one of you is gonna need to come up here and grab the supplies for the lab.” He waves a hand at the various beakers and materials laid out on the demonstration bench in front of him. 

“There’s gonna be two parts to this lab. Make sure you’re using your time wisely so you can get everything done. The first part is looking at metal salts and conducting flame tests. You’re going to get five sticks that have been soaked in an unknown salt, and by analyzing the color and luminosity of the flame, you should be able to identify the metal in the salt.” Kuroo pauses and levels the entire class with a very serious expression. 

“You’ll have to use the Bunsen burners for this section. For the love of god, tie your hair up and watch your sleeves. Anyone who catches themselves on fire owes the entire lab donuts next week. Understood?” After receiving a chorus of mhms and yeses, he picks back up the lab report and moves on. 

“After that you’ll be looking at atomic emission spectra. This is pretty much the same thing, but instead of looking at metals, you’re looking at noble gasses. Think neon. You all should have a fancy looking contraption on your benches.” Kiyoomi looks over at the machine next to him. 

It’s a black rectangle that’s no bigger than a carton of milk. It has a thin glass tube that runs through the center, and in the back, there’s a compartment to slot in something. Kiyoomi assumes it’s for the variety of small canisters sitting on the demonstration lab bench. There are two switches on the side: one that says on and off, and the other just has a small lightning bolt on one end.

“You’re going to grab three of these little containers up here. In them is a random noble gas. You’ll click it into place in the back, and once you plug it in and flip the on switch, the machine will pull the gas into the tube. Then, flip the other switch and the machine will send a jolt of electricity through the tube. This will cause the gas to combust and that’s when it’ll glow. All the gasses have their own unique color, so make sure you’re paying attention so you can write down which one you think you’ve got.” Kiyoomi remembers learning about this during his advanced chemistry classes in highschool. It shouldn’t be too difficult, but then again he is now partnered with Miya, so all bets are off.

“There’s also an out of class component to this lab. You and your lab partner need to research an example of these phenomena happening in the natural world and type up a one page analysis to attach to your typical lab report.” Several loud groans ring out through the room. Kuroo raises his hands in defence.

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. It shouldn’t be hard to do, and it’s just one page. So, let's all put on our adult pants, okay?” Kiyoomi loathes the idea of having to work with Miya outside of this lab. In their lectures and bio lab, Kiyoomi has artfully put himself in a position where Miya can’t approach him or sit near him. Now, it seems as if Kiyoomi’s going to have to drag himself to the library at some point later in the week and waste a precious hour of free time in Miya’s company. 

“I’ll get the stuff, Omi-Omi.” Miya hops up from his seat before Kiyoomi has a chance to reply. Miya’s begun to do that more often—offering to collect their materials, thus allowing Kiyoomi to stay in his seat and away from the small crowd of people at the front of the room. 

Kiyoomi chooses not to dwell on that thought as he hands Kuroo last week’s lab report and trades it for today’s. He quickly scans over the paper and takes out the materials they’ll need for the lab.

Miya comes back cradling all of their samples in his arms and unceremoniously drops them onto the lab bench. 

“I’ll handle the Bunsen burner. You sit over there and try not to cause a disaster.” Miya opens his mouth to retort, closes it, is silent for a few moments, and then shrugs. 

“That’s fair. You shoulda seen what happened this one time my brother asked me to watch the biscuits in the oven while he went and took a crap. I almost burned the whole house down, but to be fair, the book I was readin’ was really good.” A brother? God, Kiyoomi pities the poor soul who had to parent not only one Miya, but _two_ , through adolescence.

“There’s another one of you? That’s a nightmare.” Miya lets out an uneasy chuckle, but doesn’t jump to defend himself or his sibling. Kiyoomi is surprised by his tepid reaction, but is too thankful for the few precious moments of silence to push the topic further. 

He turns the nozzle on the Bunsen burner and twists it until it’s a shallow and steady flame. He holds out a gloved hand, and Atsumu places a thin wooden sticks into his palm. One end is dark black in color, and Kiyoomi sticks it into the fire. Immediately, the orange glow turns dark green.

“Miya, are you taking notes?” Kiyoomi already knows what the metal is, but their lab report requires detailed descriptions on the color of each of the flames.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m takin’ notes.” Miya scribbles down a few bullet points. Kiyoomi lets the stick burn for a few more moments, mesmerized by the dancing emerald flame, before placing it in a beaker full of cool water he had poured before they started the experiment _._

He pauses to glance over at Miya’s paper, checking to make sure that he’s _actually_ taking notes, and not doodling pictures in the corners like last time. More often than not, they had been several exaggerated caricatures of Kiyoomi bossing doodle-Miya around. 

“Hey! I told’ya I’m takin’ notes!” Kiyoomi gives a noncommittal hum. True to his word, Miya is taking detailed notes, but Kiyoomi can’t let him have the last word. 

“I’m just making sure it's legible. Your last report looked more like scribbles from a toddler than a college student.” Miya lets out an incredulous _huh_?, which earns him a quick snap from Kuroo to focus on their lab. Kiyoomi smiles under his mask, while Miya sinks lower into his stool and grumbles something about a ‘bed-head bastard’ under his breath. 

The rest of the flame tests would’ve gone quite smoothly, if not for Miya’s physical inability to stay silent for more than three seconds. 

While he’s been doing his part of the lab and taking notes, it hasn’t stopped his need to incessantly chatter about everything under the sun, and Kiyoomi is one second away from pulling Miya’s goggles off of his face just so he can use the elastic strap to strangle him. 

“Yeah, and Professor Ukai’s so cool. Didja know he is one of the leading experts on freshwater turtles? Right now he’s doin’ research on microplastics and their effects on digestive tract health.” Miya places the last stick in Kiyoomi’s outstretched palm. “What’s yer major Omi-Omi?” Kiyoomi considers not answering him, but he knows Miya would just spend the rest of lab pouting and whining—like a puppy begging for scraps at the dinner table—so for the sake of his own sanity, Kiyoomi decides to answer. 

“Microbiology.” Miya lets out a low whistle as he looks down at the lab report to jot down some notes about the white flame coming off the stick. 

“Wow, you must be really smart then. I don’t think I could spend my days hunched over a microscope though, and labs are too stuffy.” Kiyoomi feels his patience wearing thin. He shoves the now burnt stick into the beaker with so much force that the water sloshes over the side. Miya, unsurprisingly, doesn’t pick up on Kiyoomi’s shift in mood and continues talking. 

“Bet yer parents are really happy yer goin’ into that field. They’ll be able to talk about how their son works in some fancy lab. Are ya gonna go get your PhD?” 

Kiyoomi feels his last nerve snap. 

“Will you just shut the fuck _up_ already?” His voice is a little too loud, and several heads from nearby lab benches pop up to shoot them a curious glance, but Kiyoomi just wants Miya to _stop talking_. 

Miya looks at him with a startled expression, but blessedly drops the topic. Kiyoomi flips off the Bunsen burner and cleans up the mess from their flame tests so they can move onto the next part of their lab. 

As Kiyoomi clicks one of the canisters into the back of the machine, he sees Miya move out of the corner of his eye. 

“What’s yer phone number, Omi-Omi?” 

“No.” Miya lets out an indigent huff.

“Come on, Omi, we’ve gotta meet to work on this lab report. How am I suppos’d get a hold of ya? Carrier pigeon?” Kiyoomi debates just telling Miya he’ll do the entire report on his own, but, as irritating as he is, Miya is surprisingly studious. Kiyoomi has no doubt that he would put up a fuss about not doing his fair share of the assignment. 

“Fine. But if you text me about anything that’s not related to this assignment, I’m blocking your number and writing it on my own.” Miya rolls his eyes, but types in the numbers Kiyoomi rattles off to him. Kiyoomi can see him save it under the name Omi-Omi 🔬🧪 and rolls his eyes. A few seconds later Kiyoomi feels his phone buzz, but he ignores it in favor of taking notes on the dark purple color of the glass tube in front of him. 

“The only day I can’t do is Wednesday. I’m workin’ in the lab all afternoon on my research project.” Kiyoomi merely hums in response as he switches out the canister in the machine for a different one. A wide grin spreads across Miya’s face and he folds his arms behind his head.

“Yeah, I’m doing my own research project. Pretty cool, huh?” Kiyoomi smirks under his mask. While putting up with Miya’s presence is unbearable at best—and down right torture at worst—Kiyoomi savors the moments where he gets to bring the oh-so-mighty Miya Atsumu back down to the plane of mortal men.

“Not really. I have a meeting right after class for a lab assistant position in one of the microbio labs.” Miya’s smile falters and Kiyoomi relishes in the swoop of victory that swells in his stomach.

“I’m not sure when I’ll be able to meet, but we can talk about it later. Now, stop inflating your own ego and focus on the experiment. If your head gets any bigger it won’t be able to fit through the door.” Tucking his—metaphorical—tail between his legs, Miya stays quiet the rest of lab and instead focuses on taking notes. 

They wrap up the experiment and take time to make sure they’ve thoroughly cleaned their station. They’re always one of the first groups finished, and once again, Kiyoomi is forced to begrudgingly admit that even though Miya is a terror, he is a pretty decent lab partner. 

Kiyoomi leaves first. He had scheduled his meeting with Dr. Washijo anticipating that this lab would take much longer than it did, but his father always says, “early is on time, and on time is late” so Kiyoomi heads straight to the biology building, figuring if he’s too early, he can always wait in the hall. 

He hears Miya walk out of the room behind him and the sound of footsteps follows him down to the 1st floor. The chemistry and biology buildings are adjacent to each other, so Kiyoomi just has to walk across the sidewalk to get to where he needs to be. 

Still, the sound of footsteps follows him. 

Before he opens the door of the biology building, Kiyoomi turns around and shoots Miya with a withering glare. The idiot almost bumps into him because his nose is buried in his phone. 

“Stop following me.” Miya’s face twists in confusion. 

“I’m not followin’ ya. My lab is in here and I’ve gotta do some stuff today.” It makes sense, both of them work in biological fields, but Kiyoomi can take solace in the fact that their disciplines are very different, and thus, there should be some distance between where they work. 

Kiyoomi walks into the building, not bothering to hold the door open for Miya—forcing him to catch it before it slams into his shoulder. 

“Rude, Omi-Omi.” Kiyoomi ignores him as he checks the directory on the wall. He knows where the lab is—he stopped by to find it last night so he wouldn’t get lost today—but a lot can happen in 24 hours, and it doesn’t hurt to check again. 

Room 110, exactly where it was yesterday. Kiyoomi makes a left and counts the number plates on the doors as he walks down the hall. He wrinkles his nose when he sees Miya walking just a few paces ahead of him. 

Kiyoomi seriously starts to wonder what he did in a past life when Miya places his hand on the knob of Room 111. When Kiyoomi stops in front of the adjacent door, Miya looks up at him and his face lights up with a smile. 

“Looks like we’re lab neighbors, Omi-Omi!” Kiyoomi pauses and takes a deep breath. If his previous life also had to deal with Miya Atsumu, then he really doesn’t blame him for whatever atrocities he committed. Kiyoomi wonders if his next life will feel the same sympathy for him, because currently Kiyoomi’s last nerve is hanging by a very thin thread. 

“Ya wanna come in and meet Nemo?” Against his better judgement Kiyoomi finds himself asking. 

“Who’s Nemo?” Miya’s face lights up with glee, like a child’s when you ask them about their favorite game or toy. If Kiyoomi were a softer man, he might find it endearing. 

He doesn’t.

“She’s our lab turtle! You wanna come hold her? She’s not very talkative, but she’s a real good listener—like a therapy dog, but without the shedding.” Kiyoomi levels Miya with a deadpan stare and turns around to open the door to Dr. Washijo’s lab. He hears Miya call out to him, something about lunch, but the sentence is cut off as the wooden door closes. 

The microbiology lab is orderly, sterile, and completely turtle free. Kiyoomi quickly brushes away the small pang of disappointment in his chest over the latter fact. 

“Ah, Sakusa-kun, you’re early.” Dr. Washijo is sitting at his desk, glasses settled low on his nose. There are papers spread out before him—essays—Kiyoomi discerns as he gets closer, all of them saturated in red ink. 

“Yes, I apologize, sir, but my chemistry lab finished earlier than expected.” Dr. Washijo motions for Kiyoomi to sit in one of the rolling chairs haphazardly scattered around a table beside his desk. Kiyoomi’s nails dig into his palms as he forces himself perch on the edge of the chair, barely touching the fabric. 

“I would expect nothing else from a Sakusa. Your parents raised you right, with discipline. Too many parents are soft, and their kids are used to being coddled and babied. It’s pathetic.” Kiyoomi just nods in agreement, deciding it would be in his best interest to not point out that raising your children like human beings rather than like dogs that need to behave is not, in fact soft, but just more humane. 

He allows a familiar mask to settle over his features, one he is well practiced in wearing. He had perfected it while growing up under the heavy hand of his parents and long shadow of his siblings. 

Throughout the entire interview he can’t help but wish that he was somewhere else—somewhere not too far away, with a blond haired idiot and his therapy turtle. 

🧪

Atsumu feels himself frown as the door to Sakusa’s lab shuts with a click of finality. What man in their right mind would reject an opportunity to hold a _turtle_? Whatever. Atsumu knew from the beginning that Sakusa’s a fun hater. He shrugs and heads into his own lab, eager to get started on his project.

All he has to do today is run some assays, so he settles into his workspace with a pair of goggles and some gloves; he’s pretty sure he can grind out the work before lunchtime. The back and forth between the micropipette and the solution is a familiar rhythm, and he doesn’t even notice that he’s on his last set of samples until he finishes them.

Atsumu flicks his gaze to the clock on the wall. 12:30. Oh, he is so perfect. Sticking his trays in the fridge to deal with tomorrow, Atsumu sheds his PPE and heads over to the glass tank in the corner of the room. Nemo doesn’t even spare him a glance when he bends down to her eye level.

“Hello, Miss Nemo,” he says, his voice _certifiably_ not half an octave higher than usual. “You look like yer having a good day.” 

The turtle does not respond.

Atsumu looks at her for a few moments longer, a half smile on his face, before dropping into a low squat to reach under the table. He pulls out a box of dried grasses and sets it on the countertop. Rising back to his feet, he pops off the lid and heaps a handful into her food tray.

At that, Nemo finally reacts, a foot slowly raising up out of the water bath to reach over the lip of the tray. Atsumu watches keenly as she slowly but surely makes her way across the tank. When she finally arrives at her destination, her beaked mouth creaks open before slowly closing around a stalk. The shoot splinters in half, and the thought that she looks like Godzilla at 0.25x speed pops into Atsumu’s head. His smile widens as she continues to lazily chomp away at the grass.

“And with that, I’ll take my leave,” he says. “Enjoy yer meal, Miss Nemo.”

Atsumu grabs his backpack and heads out the door, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He swipes away a few notifications before shooting a text to Rintarou.

**Sunarin [12:33]**

< wanna get lunch

The reply comes through before he can even lock his phone. 

**Sunarin [12:33]**

> no

Atsumu pulls out his trump card.

**Sunarin [12:34]**

< i’ll buy you coffee

Fifteen minutes later, Atsumu and Rintarou each have secured their means of caffeine (Atsumu gets tea this time, just to spice things up) and are headed into the dining hall. As he waits in line for a sandwich, his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

**Unknown Number [12:52]**

> so you still only hangin out with rin b/c no one else likes you?

Atsumu rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue. Does Rintarou, like, tell Osamu everything? Since when have Osamu and Rintarou been closer than him and Rinatarou, anyways?

**Unknown Number [12:52]**

< shouyou-kun and i hang out outside of our room practically daily, thank you very much.

> that’s just cuz he’s forced to be around you

Atsumu reaches the front of the queue, so he tucks his phone away and orders. While he waits for his Reuben to toast, he stares off to the side into space. Has he made any friends the past three weeks? Osamu’s right that Shouyou is a bit different since they’re roommates, but they get meals together pretty often and have even studied next to each other in the library a couple of times. Shouyou wouldn’t actively reach out so much if he hated Atsumu’s guts, right? As for other potential friends, Atsumu feels like he’s been civil, if not downright _friendly_ , to most of the people he sits near in his classes.

The only people he can actively think about who might not be his biggest fans are Tsukishima and Sakusa—the two people he’s a bit of a jackass to on purpose. Their reactions are just so funny: either passively regarding Atsumu as literal scum of the earth or, even better, actively taking the bait and biting back. Besides, Atsumu’s been intentionally heckling them over things that don’t _actually_ strike real nerves; he’s dropped the major stuff with Tsukishima, and he tries his best to stay aware of Sakusa’s mysophobia (at least, that’s what he thinks Sakusa’s condition is). 

He really feels like he’s been moving in the right direction—he hasn’t made any _enemies,_ at least. 

His Gram’s comment about “shaping up” flits through his mind.

His fight with Osamu earlier this year follows in tandem.

Atsumu physically jolts at the memory. He’s purposefully locked and shoved that particular train of thought into the very back corner of his mind since at least the beginning of summer. Thinking too much about the situation makes his skin prickle and his veins flood with something much too akin to guilt for his liking. But, of course, stupid Osamu’s text had to get him in a _reflective_ mood, and the sleeping bear’s been poked, rearing its claws with a vengeance.

When Osamu first told him about his idea of applying to culinary school, Atsumu brushed him off, calling it a flight of fancy. He and Osamu had been in this nature thing together from the start, froclicking around their woods of a backyard since they could walk. Regardless of the season, they’d spend hours flipping over rocks and scaling trees for the opportunity to see and hear and touch the wildlife. From summer camps to science projects to internships, their interest in the natural sciences grew with them. There wasn’t a doubt in Atsumu’s mind that he and Osamu would end up at the same university, working together on what they’d always done best. And while Osamu _did_ spend a fair amount of his other free time in the kitchen, Atsumu had always just pegged it as a hobby—the same way Atsumu would sometimes watch anime or play Dance Dance Revolution. 

Upon hearing Atsumu’s flippant dismissal, Osamu gave him the barest hint of a glare before stalking off. Atsumu turned back to his lab bench, figuring that was the end.

Oh, boy, was he wrong.

Over the next few weeks, the topic never came up again, and so Atsumu had blissfully forgotten about the prospect. They applied to the same universities, same gap year programs, same summer labs. And then, a few months down the road, they learned that they both _got_ accepted into the same _everything_. Atsumu spent hours talking to Osamu about the pros and cons of all the routes they could take—of the world of professional science that was finally opening up to them. If he thinks _really_ hard about it, he can remember a certain calculated stiltedness to each one of Osamu’s responses, the way he just didn’t seem as _excited_ about things as Atsumu did. But maybe hindsight just gave him 20/20.

When Atsumu finally decided on his current university—one that was only an hour drive from their house that also offered him a space in a lab for the summer before his first year—he told Osamu of his choice and hit _Accept_ on his computer screen. Osamu looked up from the stove, humming a note of acknowledgement before getting back to work, and Atsumu had just assumed he’d accept his own offer later. 

The next night, they were sitting on opposite ends of the couch—backs against the arm rests with their legs propped up, feet meeting in the middle cushion—when Osamu suddenly dropped the bomb:

“I’m going to culinary school.” 

Atsumu glanced up, blinking once, twice, as Osamu continued to stare down impassively at his phone. 

Remembering their conversation months before, Atsumu clicked his tongue. “You’re still on about that, Samu? I didn’t even see ya apply—”

“I accepted my offer last night.” Osamu finally looked up. His eyelids had the same droop as usual, his mouth set in a neutral line. His expression was serious, and Atsumu clicked his phone off, setting it in his lap.

“How can you accept something ya didn’t apply for?” he started, his veins flooding with irritation. If Osamu was pulling his leg, then it wasn’t very funny.

“I did apply.” His gaze flicked back down to his phone. “You just weren’t payin’ attention.”

At the blatant accusation, Atsumu’s chest squeezed, indignant. “Yeah, I was! We applied to the same schools! At the same time! We agreed on what we thought our best options were! When the hell’d you sneak behind my back ‘nd apply to something else?”

A spark of irritation flitted across Osamu’s face, and he sat up against the armrest, his feet sliding out from between Atsumu’s. “I wasn’t “sneakin’” nothin’. I have a free will of my own, you know. I don’t ask permission every time I wanna do something different from you.”

“This ain’t just “somethin’ different,” though!” Atsumu knew his volume was increasing, but he couldn’t help the words—the fury—from pouring out his mouth. “This is our entire _future_. What we decide we wanna do with the rest of our _lives_! And yer tellin’ me now that it’s too late—without askin’ my opinion at _all_ —that you picked somethin’ completely _different?”_

Osamu visibly bristled, his cheeks flushing red as a vein popped out of his temple. “The world doesn't revolve ‘round you, Tsumu! And I _did_ try to tell ya that I wanted to maybe do somethin’ different. And what’d ja do? You fuckin’ laughed in my face!”

“‘Cause I didn’t realize you were bein’ _serious!_ ” Atsumu was fully yelling at that point; he had probably woken up their parents sleeping upstairs, but he didn’t care. All he could see was Osamu’s traitorous face before him. “And you never brought it up again!”

“Maybe I didn’t bring it up again ‘cause I fuckin’ knew you’d be an asshole ‘nd try ta talk me out of it? Maybe it was cuz yer so self centered that you can’t even _see_ how much cookin’ means to me?”

An inferno erupted in Atsumu’s gut, a defensive instinct. Atsumu leapt across the couch, grabbing Osamu by the collar. “What the _fuck_ d’ya mean by that?”

Osamu gripped the front of Atsumu’s shirt back and shakes him. “I _mean_ that you walk with life only thinkin’ ‘bout _yourself_ and what _you_ want—only seein’ whatcha wanna see and doin’ whatcha wanna do! But this isn’t _your_ world; erryone don’t be revolving ‘round ya like the sun.” Osamu heaved a sigh, squeezing his eyes shut before continuing at a lower volume. “I got my own goals. I always have.”

Atsumu’s grip tightened on Osamu’s collar. “You’ve never given me any sign, beyond tellin’ me that one time you wanted to apply to culinary school, that ya ever wanted anything different from me.”

Atsumu could tell immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. Osamu’s nostrils flared, and he yelled, “ _That’s exactly what I mean_!” Spit flew out of his mouth, hitting Atsumu in the face. “I spend half my life in the kitchen. I go to fucking _cooking class_ on the weekends. I _literally_ work part time at the sushi place. But—knowing all of that—didja ever even _consider_ that I might wanna do somethin’ with food service for the rest of my life? _No!_ Not even with the hint laid out fuckin’ bare under yer damn nose! Because yer so self-centered that ya never figured I would do anythin’ beyond bio—with _you_.” Osamu dragged him an inch closer, locking their gazes. 

“I’m not _your_ twin; _we_ are twins.” Osamu hesitated a beat before driving the final nail into the coffin:

“I don’t wanna be anything like you. And that means following dreams that are my own.”

Atsumu was burning; every fibre of his being consumed by flames. But at its core, buried deep within his chest, Osamu’s words hit something different, in a way that nothing else had ever affected him before. 

And, fuck, it _hurt_.

The reality that Atsumu had hurt—was _still_ hurting—Osamu sunk to the bottom of his stomach, threaded through the gaps of his ribs. 

And so, to cope, he socked Osamu in the face. 

Their parents came down to pull them apart only maybe thirty seconds later, but the damage was done—physically and mentally. Atsumu can still feel the blood on his tongue as he stood in the shower that night, his ribs aching where Osamu kicked them. But nothing hurt more than the squeeze in his chest, the absolute betrayal that wrapped around his heart like barbed wire.

“H-Hello?” A hand waves in his line of sight, snapping him out of his head. He glances over at its source—a petite, blonde girl over a foot shorter than him. He tries to not let the anger of his thoughts seep into his expression, but, according to the look on the poor girl’s face, he’s doing poorly. She flinches, yanking her arm back, and her gaze flits around at anything and everything that isn’t him.

“Uh, y-your food’s ready. Sorry. I was behind you in line and my order just got finished and yours has been sitting on the counter for a bit and you looked like you were really spaced out and I didn’t want it to get cold or anything!” She pauses, then squeaks, suddenly going rigid. “Oh my god, I just called you spacey. I didn’t mean it like that! I’m sure you just have something really important on your mind; oh my god, I’m so sorry!” She looks like she’s about to bow in apology when Atsumu cuts her off, trying to keep his voice light.

“No, thanks for letting me know. I was a bit distracted.” He gives her one of his usual smirks, and she only barely glances at him before looking around the room again.

“Oh, uh, okay.” She pauses awkwardly before looking down at her plate. “Sorry again. H-have a nice lunch!” Atsumu doesn’t have the chance to respond in turn before she’s skittered off. He drops his grin and sighs. Is he really that intimidating? This is all Osamu’s fault—if he weren’t thinking about his stupid brother, he’d have been in the right mindset to charm her pants off instead. Satisfied with this logic, he walks over and scoops up his sandwich. 

After grabbing some condiments and some napkins, Atsumu joins Rintarou on the terrace. Upon looking up from his phone, Rintarou raises an eyebrow.

“How’d ya manage to get your panties in a bunch between when I saw you ten minutes ago and now? Did I miss a fight in the dining hall?” Rintarou narrows his eyes. “No, you don’t look physically injured. Damn.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes as he takes a bite of his sandwich. After chewing only about half of it down, he replies, “Osamu’s just being a jerk, as usual. Textin’ me about how I have no other friends than you. S’not true!” Rintarou raises his eyebrow again. Atsumu swallows, a fresh rush of irritation flooding his veins. “Oi, don’t gimme that look! I bet he’s in the same boat. He would only be textin’ and _annoyin_ ’ me constantly if he had nothin’ else better to do.” 

Rintarou purses his lips. “Actually, he’s made a lot of friends. I went and visited him last weekend, and we had lunch with some of the people in his classes. They apparently are, like, starting a weekly thing where they’re just gonna cook and eat and drink.” He pauses for a second, eyes flicking to the sky in thought. “I also met his housemates—they’re grad students who’re dating. I know they get on well, too. Apparently the dude, Tanaka, buys him alcohol and they shoot the shit sometimes.”

Atsumu frowns. “You went to see Samu and ya didn’t invite _me_?” He’s not gonna lie—he stopped listening after Rintarou said he went to visit. 

Rintarou gives him a look. “You wouldn’t have come even if I had, Atsumu.”

Atsumu clicks his tongue but doesn’t reply. Rintarou’s not _wrong_. The fact that Rintarou and Osamu are even hanging out at all still throws him for a loop, though. It’s not like they weren’t all friends in high school, but Rintarou never exerts energy he doesn't have to unless he’s being bribed. What did Osamu do that convinced Rintarou to _drive_ all the way out to see him?

Before he can ask this aloud, Rintarou continues, “Dude. It’s been months. You’ve been acting like Osamu is some kind of bitter ex you just can’t seem to let go of when he’s literally your brother. You have a car. You can see him whenever you want.”

Atsumu blows a raspberry. “No, I don’t wanna.” He doesn’t even know what he wants at this point from Osamu—it’s not like the bastard will ever apologize. One thing he knows he can always expect from Osamu is honesty, and he didn’t seem the slightest bit remorseful after their fight. 

They actually came to some kind of mutual, bitter agreement after that day: neither of them talked to the other for almost a week afterwards. Osamu was the one who eventually broke the ice, but he really only started treating Atsumu “normally” again at the tail end of the summer—low blows and insults and all. Atsumu by that point was still pissy as ever and only talked when spoken to first. He carried his resentment to university and wasn’t planning on letting it go anytime soon. Not until... Osamu redeems himself. In what manner, Atsumu still doesn’t know. Shifting in his seat, he huffs, then bites a chunk out of his sandwich.

Rintarou gives him a quick eye roll. “Suit yourself.”

Atsumu stews in his self-imposed misery as he continues to tear the Reuben apart. Rintarou pays him no mind, scrolling through his phone and texting every so often.

“Atsumu-san!” Atsumu hears a few minutes later, and he instantly perks up, head whipping around towards its source. He thinks he hears Rintarou whisper, _You’re like a freakin’ dog, jeez_ , but before he can glare at him, Shouyou walks up to their table. 

“Heya, Shouyou-kun.” He catches his gaze, then looks behind him. “And Tobio-kun. Y’all out on a lunch date?”

Tobio nods his head in greeting. “And no, we just always get lunch together on Mondays.” 

Oh, Tobio. That jab just went completely over his head, didn’t it? Shouyou seems to think the same, for his face breaks out into a broad smile. 

“I mean, Kageyama-kun, isn’t it always a date if we’re together? Because we’re dating?” Shouyou turns his head up to face Tobio, his eyes turned all exaggeratedly soft and mushy. 

Tobio’s brows furrow in confusion. “But you’re always the one saying that dates are supposed to be “romantic.” How is eating cafeteria food lunch together romantic?”

Shouyou deflates, rolling his eyes. “I’m surprised that you can even tell that this isn’t romantic. I don’t think you have a romantic bone in your body.” Tobio’s frown deepens, and Shouyou hip checks him, a fond smile on his lips. “It’s okay, Silly-yama, that’s what I like about you.” 

Atsumu gags at the blatant PDA happening before him. “Did y’all come over here for a reason or are ya gonna go get a room?”

Shouyou turns his gaze back to Atsumu, blinking as though he’d forgotten he was there. “Oh, yeah! Can we sit with you guys?” He gestures around the terrace, and Atsumu notes that it’s become rather crowded. “There’s no open seats in the dining hall or outside, and we thought we’d ask.”

Atsumu looks at Rintarou, who shrugs. He makes a sweeping gesture at the two empty spaces before him, winking. “All yours.”

“Thanks!” Shouyou chirps, then plops down. Tobio moves to the other open spot and sits as well. 

As they get started on their meals, Atsumu tries to remember what he was thinking about before they came over. Oh, yeah. Osamu. Gross. No more of that, please. And, thanks to Shouyou, he knows exactly how to get his mind off of it.

He flits his gaze over to the poor, unsuspecting Tobio. 

“So, Tobio-kun,” Atsumu starts, “are you the reason Shouyou-kun’s never in our room ‘cept to sleep anymore? D’ya have a single or something?” Shouyou gives Atsumu a glance and smirks, but continues to idly chew his lunch.

Tobio finishes his bite of food before replying, “I don’t know what this dumbass is doing half the time. Probably just eating protein powder out of the jar at the gym or something.” He flicks his gaze over to Shouyou, then back to Atsumu. “I don’t have a single, though I don’t see how that has anything to do with Hinata.” Shouyou erupts into giggles, and Rintarou even gives a mild smirk. Tobio pans around the table, confused.

Atsumu can feel an ugly smirk creep onto his face, but he can’t help it. 

With the help of Shouyou, he continues tormenting an oblivious Tobio—decidedly _not_ thinking about Osamu—for the rest of lunch.

🧪

Atsumu walks across campus with a pep in his step. Today for bio lab, their class is meeting at the storm water drainage pond across campus, collecting water samples to bring back to the lab, then analyzing them for microinvertebrates. While Atsumu prefers bigger fauna, all animals are good animals. And besides, the day is perfect—sunny but with a few clouds for respite, warm but with a slight breeze. Atsumu takes a deep breath, thanking the creator of the universe for making nature so sexy.

The pond comes into view, and Atsumu feels a rush of excitement run through his veins. What’s more, he can see the back of Sakusa’s dark, curly locks as well. He’ll really kill two birds with one stone today: not much sounds better than chilling in the outdoors while pushing his favorite chem lab partner’s buttons.

Atsumu calls out “Omi-Omi!” and nearly trips upon spotting Sakusa’s reaction. Ah, shit, what’s got him in a mood? Atsumu’s literally only said one word and Sakusa looks like he’s ready to burn him alive at the stake. Maybe he’ll steer clear of him for the time being—why bring rain to his perfectly sunny day?

Redirecting his path, Atsumu walks instead towards his bio lab partner, Noya. In the four weeks since school started, Atsumu’s learned that Noya is quite the funky dude. He’s got this boundless energy that tires Atsumu out from just being around him. He’s the epitome of an extrovert and also definitely has, like, ADHD or something—he’s either nose deep in whatever lab they’re working or across the room chatting up that one teddy bear looking fellow. Atsumu doesn’t dislike the dude, but he’s not as much fun as Sakusa. Well, he’s actually a lot more _literally_ fun than Sakusa, but Atsumu meant it more in the self-serving, sadistic sense: Sakusa is easy to provoke, Noya is not.

“Hey, Atsumu!” Noya yells in greeting. He’s literally always using his outdoor voice—which Atsumu supposes is appropriate for once.

“Sup?” Atsumu replies, giving a two-fingered salute.

But before Noya can reply, Daichi clears his throat at the front of the pack. “Afternoon, everyone. Today, as you all know, we’re working in and with the great outdoors!” He gestures grandly at the pond. “Fun school history for you all: this stormwater retention pond was built my freshman year. We were hit with a particularly nasty storm, and the campus was flooded with so much water that the old infrastructure couldn’t hold up; a bunch of runoff ended up drowning the basements of a freshman dorm down stream.” Daichi lets out a small chuckle, hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. 

“Actually, it was my dorm. And one of the rooms that took the heaviest damage was, in fact, my room.” He laughs for real now, a few of the students huffing in amusement along with him. “I ended up meeting one of my best friends, though, because I got moved into the extra space in his room. Ah, silver linings.” He drops his hand, looking around at the class. 

“I hope nothing that drastic happens to any of you all your first year. But I’m sure you’ll make plenty of good memories on your own—minus any potential traumatic events.” Even Atsumu smirks a bit at that; Daichi’s just so earnest—he’s only a couple years older than Atsumu, but he acts like he’s forty—he can’t help it.

“Anyways,” Daichi continues, “collection shouldn’t take too long. I’ve brought down a kit for each group—” his gaze flickers down to the stack of white boxes on the ground, “—and everyone just needs to follow the instructions taped to the front of the kit to get adequate samples. Kapeesh?” Everyone nods or hums in agreement, and Daichi takes a step back, welcoming the crowd to grab as they please. 

Atsumu goes to pick up a kit when Noya comes in from his right and swipes it up. Before Atsumu can raise an eyebrow in question, Noya is off to the races, troping quickly around to the other side of the pond. He has the decency to throw over his shoulder, “Don’t worry about it, Atsumu, I can get the samples!” Atsumu stares blankly at his receding form for a moment, then shrugs. Means he can use the time for fun to search for frogs and snakes and other herps.

He’s about to bounce away to go off on his adventure—no cursed rings or dragons present, to his dismay—when he spots Sakusa out of the corner of his eye. It only takes a second of properly observing him for Atsumu to realize that something is _off._ Despite the fact that he’s wearing nitrile gloves, Atsumu can see the outline of his knuckles gripping the testing kit. There’s tension radiating from his shoulders, and his usual fair complexion even lighter today—he literally looks like a ghost. 

Memories from Atsumu’s time with Sakusa flash quickly through his mind, and Atsumu connects the dots: Outside. Germs. Dirt. If he really does have mysophobia, then this lab really is his greatest nightmare. Atsumu glances around for Komori, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

Welp, the herps can wait.

Atsumu walks over and ensures he’s giving Sakusa a wide enough breadth before reaching out and putting his hands on the side of the kit Sakusa’s grasp. He tugs loosely on the box a few times and watches Sakusa’s grip somehow tighten even greater. 

“What do you want, Miya?” Sakusa asks, pointedly staring straight ahead.

“Gimme the kit,” Atsumu replies, pulling at it once more.

“Why?” Sakusa finally flits his gaze over to Atsumu, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. But Atsumu can see the creases of panic that line his countenance buried underneath the facade of contempt. 

“‘Cause my partner ran off without me, and I still wanna do the experiment.” Not the full truth—he’d much rather tromp around for herps (even if they are wingless and dont breathe fire), but right now, Sakusa looks like he’s on the verge of passing out. And Atsumu’s a self centered jerk, but he’s been working on it, and he’s not gonna leave his poor chem lab partner to suffer if he doesn’t have to. Also Sakusa would probably punch him if he came at this whole situation from a sympathy angle, so fibbing it is.

In any other context, Atsumu would bet a hundred dollars that Sakusa’s pride would’ve won out over accepting anything from Atsumu, even if Atsumu _is_ making it look less like help and more for personal gain. But instead, the most pained look crosses over Sakusa’s face (the energy it radiates is incredibly intense considering half of it’s being covered by a mask), then he loosens his grip on the case. Atsumu tugs again and the handle slips completely free from his grasp. Eyebrows raised, Atsumu stands there for a moment, honestly surprised by how little coercion he had to do. Sakusa doesn’t say a word, not meeting his eyes.

After a few more seconds of awkward silence, Atsumu clicks his tongue. “Thanks, Omi-omi. I’mma go now.” Sakusa gives him a curt nod, tucking his hands into the pocket of his lab coat. Atsumu starts walking down to the edge of the pond; Sakusa makes no move to follow. So Atsumu was _right_. He mentally pats himself on the back. And Osamu says he’s got zero emotional intelligence. Hah! He’ll prove that bastard wrong, even if he’s not here to see it.

Kneeling at the water’s edge, Atsumu makes quick work of scooping up samples and putting the test tubes safely back into the kit. He did this kind of work one summer through an internship, so it doesn’t take much thought. Just as he’s closing the case, he spots a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. He freezes and squints, trying to pinpoint its source. 

Aha! Frog!

Grabbing the kit’s handle, Atsumu takes a few slow steps backwards, a grin forming on his lips. He places it on the ground and begins to stalk back forward, steps light as a feather, circling so that his shadow doesn’t alert the frog. Catching them while they’re right up adjacent to a water source is hard—if they get scared, they’ll jump into the pond, and you’re shit out of luck. But Atsumu hasn’t handled herps for years without picking up a trick or two on frog capture.

The frog hasn’t moved yet, seemingly still unaware of Atsumu’s presence. So Atsumu lunges, placing his hand in front of the frog a few inches off the ground. As expected, the frog jumps right into his waiting palm, and Atsumu closes his hand around its soft skin, his grip solid but gentle. His smile stretches wider upon bringing the frog up to his face, looking at it eye to eye.

“Well, aren’t you a cutie!” Atsumu says, his voice jumping up half an octave. (He can’t help it! Frogs make him soft!) “You’re a rare one, too. _Zhangixalus arboreus_. Mister... Missus?” He estimates its body size, squeezing lightly. “No, probably Mister Kinugasa Flying Frog. What’cha doin’ on a university campus, huh?”

A streak of blond pops up in the corner of his eye and suddenly, Noya’s standing before him, his eyes wide with wonder. “You caught a frog? That’s dope! Can I hold it?” Atsumu yanks the frog protectively towards his chest. 

“Quiet down! They have sensitive ears.” He narrows his eyes at Noya. “You can only hold him if you promise to be _gentle_ and then let him go after a couple seconds. Otherwise, he’ll probably pee on you.” That would honestly be really funny, and Atsumu doubts that Noya would care, but he still doesn’t want Noya holding onto him for too long. Don’t wanna stress the poor thing out any more than he already has by capturing him.

Noya agrees to his terms, and Atsumu hands him over, instructing how to _lightly_ clasp his hands around its figure. Noya’s eyes bug out even wider, and he whips around. “Asahi, look! I’m holding a frog!” Atsumu blinks as he turns his attention on the teddy bear guy standing behind Noya—despite his height, he hadn’t even noticed his presence. So the build _and_ vibes of a teddy bear, huh. His gaze flits between Noya, who looks like he’s about to bounce out of his shoes in excitement, and Asahi, whose gaze rests on the frog, his brows pulled down in mild worry. They’re quite the paradigm of opposites attract, huh.

Atsumu goes to pick up the kit he abandoned as Noya continues to gawk at the frog. After he walks back down to the pond’s edge, Atsumu taps Noyoa in the shin with his foot. “Alright, dude, let ‘im go. Just squat low to the ground and loosen your grip; he’ll jump right on out.” Noya frowns but follows his guidance, and the frog quickly leaps out of his palm and into the pond.

They turn around to head back to where everyone’s convening, and Atsumu catches Sakusa staring at him. His gaze flits to the ground as soon as their gazes lock, but, even from this distance, Atsumu could see that there was something beyond Sakusa’s usual disgust in his eyes. Did he maybe want to see the frog? Atsumu shakes his head. Sakusa would never wanna be near a creature that lived around the grimy drainage pond.

Before he can ponder further the enigma that is Sakusa Kiyoomi, Daichi’s voice rings out, “Okay, looks like everyone’s done. Let’s head back to the lab so you all can finish up.” Atsumu feels a zing of excitement rush up his spine. Microinvertebrates! 

Atsumu considers catching up to Sakusa when Noya starts asking him questions—what’s the type of frog we just caught? How did you know it was a dude? Are you, like, legit going into this type of bio? By the time they arrive at the bio building, he’s not even halfway done answering the third question. He also had totally forgotten about his other lab partner. Oops.

He slides past his and Noya’s workbench to drop the kit off across the way. Sakusa’s already standing there, stripping off his gloves. He tosses them into the bin at the end of the table and pulls out a bottle of hand sanitizer from his pocket. As Atsumu approaches, he squeezes a dollop into his hands and starts rubbing them together with practiced precision.

Atsumu sets the kit on the table and holds his palm out. Sakusa flicks his gaze over, eyes narrowing. Atsumu leans forward a bit, raising an eyebrow. “Please, Omi-Omi?” His hands really do feel slimy after holding that frog. Also he was oh-so-benevolent in doing the hard part of this experiment for Sakusa—he’s allowed to push at least one of Sakusa’s more innocuous buttons today.

Sakusa gives him another disdainful look and then begrudgingly squeezes the puniest amount of hand sanitizer in Atsumu’s palm. Atsumu smiles his thanks and moves to turn back to his bench.

“Wait,” Sakusa says, the command startling Atsumu. He turns back around, still rubbing his palms together.

“What? What’d I do?”

Sakusa rolls his eyes. “Not everything is about you, Miya.” Atsumu pouts, ignoring the sudden tightness in his chest. Not that Sakusa could have known that those words hit a little too close to home right now. “I know we were supposed to meet right after lab to work on the chem assignment, but I’m going to shower before I head to the library.” Atsumu stares at him dumbly for a moment before a lightbulb goes off in his mind—oh yeah, they agreed to work on the chem report after bio lab. When they texted about timing earlier this week, Atsumu had been extremely tempted to send Sakusa a cheesy science meme, but he restrained himself and didn’t. He just added kaomojis to the end of every sentence instead.

Sakusa gives Atsumu a once over, his eyes landing on Atsumu’s legs. Atsumu follows his gaze and notices the streaks of mud up and down his calves for the first time. “You might want to, as well.”

Atsumu looks back up and raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a shit-eating grin. “You callin’ me a dirty boy, Omi-omi?”

Sakusa sighs, the sound a mix of disdain and defeat, and rolls his eyes. “You are insufferable.”

“Nawh, I’m hilarious,” Atsumu replies. Before Sakusa can counter him, he continues, “But yeah, you’re right, I will. I work out in the field so much that I don’t even realize how muddy I get sometimes.”

Sakusa gives him a nod, then turns back to his station, grabbing a pair of fresh gloves out of the box on the counter. Atsumu heads back to his bench and puts on his own pair. For the lab itself, they’re pipetting drops of pond water onto glass slides then looking at them under the microscope for microinvertebrates. They also need to take pictures with their phones and upload them to a computer program called Image-J in order to measure the length of the critters. Something about how they’ll be repeating the experiment later in the semester and seeing if the microinvertebrates’ body size changes depending on the season.

As he’s uncapping their first sample, Atsumu glances over to the right. Sakusa seems to be working fastidiously, his slides neatly arranged in front of him as he methodically pipettes drops from his test tubes atop them. The color in his cheeks has returned, and Atsumu senses that the more clean and controlled lab environment has helped soothe his nerves.

Atsumu turns back to his setup, sliding his fist sample beneath the microscope. He hopes that when they repeat the lab in the winter, Komori’s here to collect the samples for Sakusa’s group.

But if he’s, by some chance, not, then Atsumu doesn’t think that he’d mind helping out again.

🧪

It isn’t until the hot water beats down against Kiyoomi’s skin that the itching finally stops. Even though he technically didn’t touch the pond water, he was still around those who had, as well as the equipment that they’d used while wading through the disgusting muck. He had sacrificed the quality of his lab report just this one time so that he could rush back to his room as quickly as possible. 

Now, under the clean spray, with his skin still stinging from being thoroughly scrubbed, his mind is able to clear. The all-too-familiar sense of hopelessness accompanies the water, and soon he’s drenched in both a physical and metaphorical sense. 

Why? Why does he have to be like this? He remembers the tightness in his chest, how his skin began to crawl, and it took everything within him to keep his breathing even. He watched his classmates wade thoughtlessly around the cesspool, and, in that moment, Kiyoomi thought that he would rather fail this lab than follow them in. 

Miya, the selfish prick, had been his knight in shining armour—or, more accurately, black waders—today. Kiyoomi scoffs at the thought. Miya hadn’t done it to help Kiyoomi—his own lab partner merely snatched up their equipment before Miya, and he didn’t want to be left out of the fun. It was all in his own self interest, and he was taking advantage of the fact that Kiyoomi hadn’t collected his samples yet. 

But is that really what happened? When Miya came back with the kit, he didn’t even offer it to Kiyoomi until they were back at the lab and Kiyoomi was within arms length of his disinfectant wipes. 

Miya Atsumu having a shred of social aptitude? Impossible. Preposterous. Asinine. 

Even still, Kiyoomi can’t help but wonder if his initial assessment of Miya being 100% a cocksure prick may have been a bit hasty. He should give credit where credit is due: Miya is 99.99% a cocksure prick and .01% a mediocre human being—the inverse of hand sanitizer.

That generic Lysol wipe will currently be at the library to meet Kiyoomi any minute, and Kiyoomi _knows_ he’ll never hear the end of Miya’s petulant pouting if he makes him wait. 

He gives himself one last harsh scrub down to assure that any and all pond scum is washed off of his skin, and then turns the faucet off and steps out of the shower. He forgoes his normal hair and skin care routine in the sake of timeliness, hastily throwing on a clean set of clothes before leaving his room and making the quick trip across campus to the library. 

Much to Kiyoomi’s dismay, Miya is already sitting at one of the round tables when he arrives. He looks up from his phone when he hears Kiyoomi approaching, and a greasy smile slides easily across his face. It makes Kiyoomi crave an apple or a salad—anything to cleanse his pallet. 

“Hey, Omi-Omi,” he drawls, extending the O in each syllable of that horrendous nickname. Kiyoomi’s sneer is hidden behind his mask. He hopes Miya can sense his disdain just by reading his body language, but that would require Miya to have a shred of observational skills, so Kiyoomi adds a scoff to make his feelings clear. 

“Let’s make this quick. I only have so many brain cells I can sacrifice to your idiocy.” Miya just flips him the bird in lue of a response. 

He doesn’t say anything when Kiyoomi pulls out a packet of disinfectant wipes and begins to clean the tabletop. Instead, he extends a hand. 

Kiyoomi stares at it. It’s empty, so Miya isn’t giving him anything. Kiyoomi hopes Miya doesn’t actually expect him to _touch_ it. His hair is damp, so Kiyoomi knows he showered, but even still, Kiyoomi has no idea where his filthy paws have been since then. 

“Gimme one. I’ll wipe down the chairs.” He punctuates his request with a little grabby motion. Kiyoomi’s eyes narrow, and he squints at Miya with suspicion. Wiping down a chair isn’t a difficult task, surely even Miya could succeed. But then a tiny thought wiggles itself into the back of Kiyoomi’s head: what if he misses a spot? Just the idea of brushing his hands against a grimy section of the chair makes Kiyoomi’s skin crawl.

“No,” he deadpans as he finishes wiping down the table for a second time. Miya huffs and rolls his eyes, but plops back down in his seat and fiddles on his phone as Kiyoomi finishes his routine. 

Once he is thoroughly satisfied that everything is disinfected, Kiyoomi sits down and pulls his laptop out of his bag. 

“Kuroo instructed us to find a natural phenomena of atomic emission spectra. I remember from high school learning that the northern lights are an example of this, so I think we should focus on that for our report.” Miya opens his laptop and gives a two finger salute.

“Aye aye, captain Omi.” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, but thankfully the snark ends there, and Miya actually diligently works in silence as they begin to type up their report. Maybe the gods are looking down at him with favor—maybe this experience won’t be as miserable as he anticipated.

This train of thought lasts for approximately 15 minutes until Kiyoomi’s luck runs out; he hears a soft gasp from Miya across the table, and Kiyoomi’s attention is drawn away from his computer screen. 

“Woah, they just discovered biofluorescence in Tasmanian devils! I didn’t even know mammals could do that kinda stuff. I always knew fish could, but that's ‘cause fish are weird.” Long gone is the cocky smirk; instead, Miya’s face is lit up with a childlike wonder. It’s like looking into a portal to the past, and Kiyoomi sees himself sitting in front of the television watching his idols wrangle exotic creatures out of their burrows. 

“T’says they don’t really know why they do it but that it’s in their face, so maybe it could be used to express themselves or with mating. Is there some kinda subgenre of animal behavior based off of UV markers that we just haven't been payin’ attention to? Can animals even see UV?” Miya’s accent starts to come out in a thicker drawl as he grows more excited, and Kiyoomi pauses his writing to listen. He watches Miya’s eyes quickly scan over the computer screen, ravenous for new information.

“The article says platypuses, platypi? What the fuck ever. They can do it too, but it’s on their bellies. They’re weird little critters.” Miya pauses, types something into his computer, and then looks back up at Kiyoomi with wide eyes, like a kid in a candy store. 

“Platypuses are from Australia and Tasmania too. I wonder if it's somethin’ in the water. Or maybe they’re all eatin’ a bug? Di’it evolve over time on the islands, or is’t a hemisphere thing? I wonder if they’re testin’ other animals for it now, too.” The questions keep tumbling from Miya’s lips like an avalanche, and Kiyoomi finds himself swept into the swell.

Kiyoomi has always found the natural world fascinating. For every one question answered by scientists, another three emerge. Tasmanian devils aren’t new creatures—they were named a species in the 1800s—but even still, something new was discovered about them 200 years later. 

Everyday science moves forward, turning back leaves and looking under rocks to unearth some new wonder, and Kiyoomi wants to be a part of that process. He wants to be able to sign his name at the bottom of an ever growing list of people who dared to ask, _what else is there_? 

“Biofluorescence doesn’t involve noble gasses, so it’s irrelevant to our homework,” Kiyoomi interrupts Miya’s ramblings. Miya looks up from his computer and his face falls, for just a fraction of a second, before that familiar sleazy grin slides back across his face. Kiyoomi hadn’t meant it as a sign of annoyance, just that it couldn’t be used for their assignment, but it seems as if his message was not perceived that way. 

Miya leans back into the chair, a lazier position than his previous hunched over his computer posture, and pulls the device onto his lap. The added distance can’t be more than a few feet, but it feels like the tabletop spans a mile wide between them now. 

“Right, right. Sorry for geekin’ out on ya, Omi-Omi. I’ll get back to work now.” The silence that stretches between them feels colder now. Kiyoomi knows he tripped some invisible wire, setting off a nerve he hadn’t known existed; he had never been good at reading people. Years of solitude due to being perceived as “the weird kid” hadn’t done wonders for his social skills. 

Instead of saying something, he focuses diligently on their paper, tucking his feelings into a tiny box and forcefully cramming on the lid. It ripples and bulges, threatening to pop, but if he sits on it, then the contents are forced to stay put. 

They finish their report in a timely manner, and after a quick read through and approval from both parties, Kiyoomi prints out the papers and staples them to their lab report to turn into Kuroo next week. 

“Hey, Omi-Omi, wanna go get some dinner?” Kiyoomi looks up from wiping down his laptop with a disinfectant wipe just as Miya is slinging his backpack across his shoulder. 

“I have plans,” is all he provides as an answer. Even if he didn’t, the last thing he would want to do is spend his free time with Miya Atsumu. 

“Aw, come on, Omi. Who ya hangin’ out with that's cooler than me?” Before Kiyoomi has a chance to reply, there is a call of his name from across the library. Motoya jogs across the room, and Kiyoomi wants to remind him that A) this is a library and B) they’re supposed to be meeting at the dining court, but again, he is interrupted. 

“Woah, I’m glad I caught you before you left. Hey, Atsumu.” Kiyoomi could feel the foreboding ache of a migraine settling down in the back of his skull. 

“Motoya, would you please keep your voice down? We're in the library. And why does it matter that you got here before I left? We were supposed to meet at the dining court.” 

“I know, I know.” At least he’s whispering now. “But the party planning stuff got done faster than I thought, so I thought we could walk together.” Kiyoomi doesn’t even need to see Miya to know that the blond bastard’s head perked up at the word party—like a dog when you crinkled the treat bag.

“A party?” Kiyoomi looks up at the ceiling and prays to whatever god that resides above: _please_ do not let Motoya elaborate. Let them just drop the conversation and go eat some mediocre pasta in peace. 

Apparently, Kiyoomi has been deemed a sinner, and this is his penance, because Motoya just keeps on talking. 

“Yeah! A guy I knew in highschool is an upperclassman and has his own apartment. He wanted to plan this big party to celebrate his roommate's birthday, so I offered to help him plan. His roommates are a bit rambunctious, but they have their shit together, so it didn’t take as long as I thought it was going to.” Great, Motoya explained the party. Conversation over. End of story. Time to go eat dry tortellini.

“Sweet, can I come?” Of fucking course Miya wouldn’t have a shred of social common sense. Inviting himself to a party hosted by someone he doesn’t even know. That .01%-mediocre-human-being designation from earlier today is on thin ice.

“No.”

“Sure!”

Kiyoomi sends Motoya a look, daring him to open his mouth again. They’ve been best friends since they were in diapers; Kiyoomi has _years_ of blackmail he is willing to pull out of his little black book. Motoya, the bastard, just gives Kiyoomi a smirk. Miya watches them with the same intent focus you would give two cats in an alley that are circling around a dead fish—eyes keen with interest and already placing a mental bet on who will win.

“You don’t even know Bokuto-san. Why would you want to go to his birthday party?” Motoya was helping plan the whole thing, and Kiyoomi still didn’t want to attend. It had taken weeks of Motoya grinding him down with his incessant whining and begging for Kiyoomi to agree to going for _one hour_. 

If Miya was going though, all bets were off, and Motoya could take his invite and shove it up his ass. 

“Bokuto said he wants a huge crowd, so you can come, Atsumu. Bring a friend too!” Miya looks at Kiyoomi with a smirk that is so greasy that Kiyoomi feels his pores start to clog. 

“Awesome. Thanks for the invite, Komori. I’ll see ya there, Omi-Omi.” He punctuates his sentence with a wink and Kiyoomi is marginally worried his eyes will get stuck in the back of his head because of how hard he rolls them. 

Miya saunters out of the library and Kiyoomi turns his glare onto his cousin, who is looking off to the side, whistling a light tune with his hands clasped behind his back. Kiyoomi takes back any nice thing he’s ever said about Motoya—he’s a menace. 

“I hate you.” Motoya lets out a bright laugh, and Kiyoomi only feels a slight buzz of retribution for his trauma when his cousin is loudly shushed by the librarian. 

“I love you too, Kiyoomi,” he whispers. “And there’s no way you’re getting out of coming to the party next weekend.” 

Kiyoomi doesn’t dignify him with a response, instead sidestepping him and walking towards the library doors. 

He pulls out his phone as they walk into the cool night air, Motoya giving him a questioning look. 

The recipient of his call picks up on the first ring. 

“Hi, Auntie. Yes, it’s good to hear from you too. I’m just calling to tell you that in the bottom of Motoya’s c—” His cousin tackles him before he’s able to finish the sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! if you enjoyed, please leave a kudos and/or comment and/or [retweet](https://twitter.com/rinpanna/status/1359638131268550661?s=20); avery and i will give u a virtual smooch if you do 😳👉👈  
> sometimes we post WIPs and scream about this fic on twitter. hit us up, and see you next time!  
> -[avery](https://twitter.com/a_very_smolfrog) & [anna](https://twitter.com/rinpanna)


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